


Modus Operandi

by blackazuresoul



Category: Trinity Blood
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mindfuck, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackazuresoul/pseuds/blackazuresoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weaving intrigue takes many hands, each gossamer strand of deceit a beautiful contrivance and as with anything, the end justifies the means.</p>
<p>This series is set some time prior to the attempted negotiations between the Empire and the Vatican.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Living Doll

The last thing Radu wanted to be was an errand boy. Though he had joined the Rozenkreuz Orden a year prior he, the Baron of Luxor, _was_ of noble blood; a member of a highly-respected clan that had their collective fingers in more than a few cookie jars across the New Empire. In his youth, he had gained the Duke of Tigris’ sponsorship and his connections with the Fortuna clan weren’t without their merits. For the good they did.  
  
Radu had come to understand once he’d reached adulthood that the blue of his bloodline was thin at best and he hated the thought of being anyone’s charity case. Süleyman was a kind man but his patronage had come with a price; one Radu had willingly paid while on his back—or knees as the case often was. After several years, Süleyman’s interest had waned and Radu once again found himself tethered to the Earl of Memphis. He was meant to be Ion’s companion; purposed to keep the youth out of trouble and out of his grandmother’s hair.  
  
Ion treated him as an equal, as if Radu Barvon were only one drop of blood away from Augusta Vradica herself. But soon, Ion’s blindness to class was replaced with a strong sense of how exactly high up the Fortuna clan was on the social ladder. He loved his tovarăş. However, Ion quickly learned he and Radu were of different stock and the friendship that had grown before Ion awakened seemed to rapidly dilute to little better than owner and property, in Radu’s eyes.  
  
He loathed the thought that perhaps Ion’s altruism toward him was no more than noblesse oblige and his own awakening several years after the Earl’s served to strengthen those summations. Shortly after his _Haemobacillogenesis_ —as was the clinical term—he had another troublesome wedge with which to separate him from normal society. Radu discovered he was an Ifrit.  
  
It was largely Radu’s own dissatisfaction with the status quo that led him to seek acceptance outside of the Empire. He hadn’t dreamt it would come in the form of being a lackey to a barely-legal Terran who had all the charm of a temporary filling and was just as headache-inducing.  
  
Dietrich danced the fine line between contrived innocence and open iniquity and Radu had never met his like. He surmised the redhead would have made a fine member of the High Court… if his mouth didn’t get in the way. The boy delighted in weaving tales of deceit to his anomaly of a master with regard to Radu and everyone else, despite being the liaison between the Baron and the Rozenkreuz Orden.  
  
  
Radu flicked a cigarette from his fingers as he strode across the courtyard of Orden HQ, the last lungful meeting the warm air around him. Isaak had taken the previous hour to impress upon him the necessity of a more amiable relationship with Dietrich, to which Radu was somewhat reluctant. Isaak had opined it would be good if his protégé had someone closer to his own age to keep him company.  
  
It was bad enough that he had to answer to a Terran, of all things, but to be asked to pal around with a certifiable lunatic was the thin end of the winch and would certainly involve more than Radu wanted to give. In his opinion, he was better than the collection of halfwits, half-breeds and psychopaths that populated the Orden. Not a one of them had any class– with perhaps the exception of Panzermagier– and it was rumoured they preferred their blood raw; the thought of which both disgusted and intrigued him. Polite society didn’t feed directly from the source but from the time he’d been issued his crisp black uniform, Radu had been enlightened on a great many things.  
  
Politics were politics, the world over. He had his place and Lord Cain’s agenda fit hand in hand with Radu’s disenchantment. In the Empire, he was one of many; easily forgotten in the shuffle. With Rozenkreuz, he had been given the opportunity to rise to a greatness he would never see under his _Darling Mother_. As Radu approached the eastern wing of headquarters, a clipped snicker rode over his lips and he shook his head  
  
 _“Would you be so kind as to find your superiour and tell him I’d like a word?”_ Isaak’s dismissal floated through Radu’s mind once again and he raised a hand to knock on Dietrich’s office door.  
  
  
As he waited for a reply, he glanced down the softly lit corridor. The scent of roses perfumed the air from windows opened to the courtyard and Radu put a hand through his hair then knocked again. Oftentimes, trying to locate Dietrich was like searching for a piece of straw in a massive stack of needles and Radu knocked louder this time, pounding the heavy oak with the side of his fist. “Herr von Lohengrin?” he called, the flavour of decorum toward the brat bitter on his tongue.  
  
Radu tried the handle and finding it unlocked, quietly slid into the darkened room and shut the door behind him. Moonlight from windows situated high on the wall to his left partially illuminated his path. He walked across the small, tidy office to another door and Radu rapped softly on the frosted glass panel. No answer came and he again tried the handle then stepped into a storeroom. He carefully paced further inside and waited for his eyes to adjust.  
  
From exposed rafters, marionettes of several varieties hung by their wires. Beautiful Harlequins, elegant Sicilians and even austere Stantefs stared with sightless eyes at the intruder. Radu moved a Harlequin and its painted lips seemed to blow a kiss. A Stantef arched a brow in judgment as he was moved aside, knocking into his Sicilian neighbour who turned up her haughty nose from beneath a detailed Carnivale mask.  
  
Dietrich’s puppets gave Radu the creeps, though he’d rarely seen the boy with them. Three months ago, Dietrich had graduated to reanimating Methuselah corpses for his Autojägers—apparently with Isaak’s blessing. They were far worse and even more disgusting, given their origins. The bodies of once proud Brethren reduced to a child’s plaything.  
  
Radu sidestepped to avoid the tiny pitchfork of a marionette dressed as a devil. Its beautiful face was framed by razor-cut black hair and its glass eyes caught the scant light from a ceiling window. “You look like your nutbar master,” he muttered to the puppet and when he backed up to get by it, a hand fell on his shoulder.  
  
His gasp echoed in the room and he turned to see one of the marionettes swinging on its wires, its skeletal face grinning inanely as it swayed to and fro. Radu exhaled through his nose and shook his head then put a hand over the puppet’s face and gave it a casual shove as he resumed his trek, pretending that he wasn’t beginning to hear his name whispered in the closeness of the room. Over and over it was repeated, first rapidly then drawn out as if the voice relished the taste of his name on its lips. Looking behind him, Radu saw that the skeletal marionette brushing against one of its fellows was the source of the ‘voice’. “This is fucking retarded,” he groused and with brows furrowed, bellowed: “Dietrich!”  
  
No reply met Radu’s ears and he wove further between the hanging forms, searching for their owner. _’ It would certainly fix that bitch’s little red wagon if I lit up right now and a careless ember ended his little charade,’_ Radu thought as he moved past a small crate. A flash of blue-black caught his eye and he peered down into the open container. Within the soft packing material, a face peeked up at him. He pulled the marionette out of the box and gazed into a visage that suspiciously looked a lot like him. The puppet was exquisitely detailed, even down to the small silver hoops he wore in both ears, and was dressed in Empire finery.  
  
“What are you doing here?” a voice oozed through the quiet and Radu drew a quick breath.  
  
He turned with the puppet held to his chest and spied Dietrich laying across several taller crates. The boy leered at him then sat up and let his legs dangle over the edge of the wood box. Dietrich’s boot heels knocked softly against the crate and he cocked his head, waiting to be answered. “I…” Radu quickly schooled his heart rate before continuing. “I was looking for you,” he replied and Dietrich pressed a finger to his own lips.  
  
“It appears you’ve found me, Flamberg,” he stated in a sing-song voice. “How do you like my toys? Aren’t they pretty?” Dietrich’s gaze dropped to the marionette Radu was holding and a crease played along his brow. “Hey! That’s mine, you know!” he snapped and before the older man could speak, Dietrich snatched the puppet from him by way of its strings.  
  
Radu watched the boy smooth down the marionette’s hair then turned it to face him with a pleased smile. “Isn’t he beautiful? My newest acquisition,” Dietrich stated with pride, tracing a digit down the front of its embroidered coat. Radu rolled his eyes.  
  
“Isaak wants you,” he told him and Dietrich snickered.  
  
“Of course he does,” he purred, now tracing the hem.  
  
“In his office,” Radu clarified and Dietrich watched his own finger draw down one of the marionette’s thighs.  
  
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he revealed then looked at Radu from beneath his bangs with a smirk, continuing to molest the puppet. He stroked its cheek and kissed the tip of his finger then pressed it to the toy’s lips with an impish beam. Radu crossed his arms with an exasperated sigh at the other’s admission. He couldn’t care less if the punk and his ghoul of an au pair had it off at an RCO party rally while _Der Königgrätzer Marsch_ blared in the background.  
  
“Look, Lohengrin! The man said he wanted a word,” Radu growled and Dietrich arched a brow, his free hand closing around the marionette’s left arm as his grin sharpened.  
  
“My, aren’t we cheeky this evening?!” Dietrich drawled and turned the puppet to face himself, wagging his finger at it. “Don’t you sass _me_ , vampire!” he told the thing and looked over its shoulder at the older man. Radu met the penetrating gaze, a slight twitch beneath his left eye belying his anger. He could feel the innate fire within him tingle his fingertips but he calmed and his shoulders visibly rose then fell with a single breath. The tip of his tongue moistened the seam of his lips and Radu bared a polite yet completely manufactured smile.  
  
“My apologies, Herr,” he said and tipped his chin in deference. “Isaak would like a word.” Radu hated repeating himself, however some people required simplicity. “… if you can spare the time.” He couldn’t resist the barb.  
  
The marionette was once again sat on Dietrich’s lap, its legs parted and laying over the teen’s thighs. “Ah, I see,” he murmured and his simper begged Radu forgive its former sharpness. “Hmm. I wonder which word he wants,” Dietrich mused, his right index finger hovering close to the puppet’s crotch. “What do you think, Sparky?” Radu grumbled at the moniker and Dietrich’s middle finger joined its fellow to lewdly run between the toy’s legs as he watched the Methuselah. Radu’s gaze dropped for a few seconds to attend the teasing fingers then snapped up again.  
  
“I have no idea,” he replied and let his arms fall to his sides, ready to turn on a heel. Dietrich rested his chin on top of the marionette’s head.  
  
“ _Fuck_ or _suck_?” he asked lowly then touched the tip of his tongue to the centre of his upper lip. A brow quickly raised on Radu’s forehead.  
  
“Pardon?” The corner of Radu’s mouth twitched for want of a grin but could only spare the slightest upturn that made way for an exhaled scoff. Dietrich continued on his circus train of thought.  
  
“Knowing him, probably both,” he answered himself and the Methuselah took a backwards step.  
  
“Well, enjoy finding out. I’m outta here,” Radu announced and Dietrich slid off of the crate. A hand haulted the Ifrit’s progress, clamping his bicep.  
  
“You have _not_ been dismissed, Your Lordship.” Dark blue eyes fell on the angelic face and Radu’s jaw tightened.  
  
“I have work to do, Dietrich,” he told him. “And this delightful foray into your deranged funhouse has cut into my professional time. Now, go do what you do best, _târfă_.” Radu moved his arm from Dietrich’s grip then put hands to the lapels of his own uniform and with a jerk threw a dirty leer at the boy. “Excuse me,” he iced and put his back to him.  
  
The marionette Radu passed knocked into his arm as the one Dietrich had been holding sailed by and crashed into a crate. He froze, the thing barely missing him and Dietrich’s steps echoed in the room. “How dare you turn your back on me!” he yelled and shouldered by the man to retrieve the toy. He picked it up to survey the damage, fingertips gliding over a cracked cheek. Incensed eyes shot up. “Look what you’ve made me do!” he cried.  
  
“Oh give it a rest, Dietrich!” Radu growled, a hand out to still one of the swinging marionettes. “For Christ’s sake! What are you? Ten?!” The comment went ignored and a shadow passed over Dietrich. The smile was gone from his lips and a fingertip followed the jagged path of the split in the fantoccini’s face.  
  
“How tragic,” Dietrich murmured, brushing a thick strand of hair from the marionette’s eyes. “that in an unchecked moment of displeasure something so beautiful can be broken.” He sighed and held the toy beneath its arms. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered then pressed the softest of kisses to its fixed lips. As flesh touched porcelain, Radu felt his own lips tingle. He sucked in a breath and when Dietrich’s gaze rose to meet him, Radu watched the corners of the boy’s mouth pull in a slow smirk.  
  
Blindly, Dietrich set the puppet on a nearby box then raised his hand and as he curled it into a fist, Radu began to choke. He sidestepped into a collection of toys and Dietrich loosened his fist then thrust his hand forward. Radu flew backwards into several wooden containers, coughing as he hit the ground. “I don’t appreciate insubordination,” Dietrich intoned and stepped over to the man. The toe of his boot elevated Radu’s chin and he smiled down at him. “Leave it to a low-born bitch to require a bit of _illumination_. Get up, vampire!” he ordered and again lifted his right hand.  
  
The neurostrings harshly directed Radu’s back against a tall crate and he grunted with the impact. He could feel them worming through his body; the way they twisted like vipers beneath his skin. Dietrich approached him with a patronising smile hung merrily on his face and lowered his arm. “Please don’t make me break you too, Radu,” he warned, satisfied that the Methuselah was sufficiently kowtowed for the moment.  
  
Radu gulped in a breath but found it in him to glare at the teen. “What the hell do you want?” he spat, narrowed eyes tracking Dietrich’s every move. He was better than this! He should have seen it coming; that the arrogant Terran would use his damned strings to bounce him all over the room. Radu didn’t much care for the look in Dietrich’s eyes nor the way his smirk grew toothy as he drew closer.  
  
Dietrich stood inches from Radu, his hands folded behind his back. “Why is it that you so often forget who commands you, Barvon?” he quietly asked, cocking his head. Radu’s lips pursed and he bent closer to peer directly into those hellfire eyes.  
  
“Because you make it easy to forget, Lohengrin,” he parried, his breath veiling the other’s lips. “If you’d act like you could command your way out of a paper bag without resorting to your…flair– “ Radu silenced. He knew Dietrich could reduce even the most ancient Methuselah to a giggling imbecile; he’d seen it. Ion had always said he was reckless! He watched a brow lift on Dietrich’s forehead.  
  
The teen’s silence was deafening but the ominous simper remained as Dietrich stared at Radu. After a few tense moments, a breathy chuckle sallied forth from the redhead and Radu steeled himself for whatever retaliation would soon come his way. Dietrich lowered his head and the airy snicker moved his shoulders. Though it quickly died, the boy held onto his cryptic grin. “Oh, Radu. I do like a man that can make me laugh,” he remarked with a touch to a button on the man’s uniform jacket. He crooked his finger and Radu felt the unseen strings close around his heart. His eyes screwed shut as the pain arced through his body, his fangs on full display as he threw his head back in agony. Dietrich curiously looked on and after a moment, ran his hand down the Methuselah’s chest, releasing his internal hold on him. “You kill me, doll!” he drawled and Radu hung his head, catching his breath.  
  
 _I’d love to, you little bastard!_ …  
  
“Think you can fight me, Ifrit?” Dietrich prodded, his eyes taking a short detour down the other’s body. “I invite you to try.”  
  
“You need your strings! Without them, you’re nothing, Puppetmaster,” Radu challenged and Dietrich idly examined the fingernails on his own right hand, letting the caustic diatribe poison the air between them. Radu smirked then licked his lips. “Oh, I suppose they can make someone do what you want them to, but they can’t change the fact that you’re just a scared little boy, trying to play in a man’s world!”  
  
Dietrich looked up at Radu from beneath his brows, his face a picture of control though his anger boiled beneath the placid surface. He sighed and shook his head. “You certainly have a mouth on you, don’t you?” Dietrich remarked, the pad of his thumb gliding over his index fingernail. A soft smile bloomed. “And so opinionated, too.” His tongue arced beneath his upper lip.  
  
“Pot, meet kettle,” Radu said blandly. The kid just stood there with an inane grin on his face and Radu internally commended himself for being the one to touch a nerve, for once.  
  
“Toys don’t fucking talk back, Flamberg,”  
  
“Whatever.” Radu pushed off the crate he leaned against, his progress haulted by Dietrich’s hand over his heart. Eyes met and Dietrich drew his bottom lip between his teeth, as if pondering something then spoke.  
  
“You know. Each of us have innate endowments, peculiarities that set us apart from others,” he stated evenly. “Take your particular _flair_ , for instance. Strip you of that and what’s left?” Dietrich’s smile grew dark as he continued. “A third-rate bloodsucker with delusions of grandeur.” Again, Radu’s back slammed against the crate.  
  
Head bowed, Radu finally opened his eyes to see delicate hands opening his jacket and an incredulous stare met the crown of Dietrich’s head. “What the– “ Dietrich shushed him without a glance, pushing the garment from his shoulders. Next, he hooked the knot in Radu’s tie, gently pulling downward and released it to fall open.  
  
Dietrich began to unbutton the Methuselah’s dress shirt and Radu’s hands were frozen at his sides. Caramel eyes casually rolled upwards to regard him from behind long lashes. “Isaak says I’m spoiled.”  
  
“You are,” Radu managed.  
  
Dietrich chewed his lip and freed another pearlised button. “Says I have a room full of toys and never play with them.” The fourth button revealed the pendant that hung just above Radu’s heart– a filagreed design he couldn’t place– and Dietrich touched it. “That I have such rare things which do nothing but collect dust,” he added then pulled the tails of the shirt free.  
  
Radu barely breathed under the scrutiny and Dietrich’s palm was warm as it stroked down the centre of his chest. The touch spiderwebbed beneath his skin, causing his blood to shift southward. Radu’s mind railed at the indignity of his body’s response. The devil’s strings were making him react to the caress and he wasn’t doing a damn thing to stop them. He tried raising his arms to push Dietrich away but they wouldn’t obey so he settled for a scowl. “I’m not your toy,” he muttered and hands momentarily paused at Radu’s belt.  
  
“Oh, but you are,” Dietrich countered sweetly and slid the leather through its buckle. The flat of his palm gently cupped Radu’s crotch through the woolen trousers. “This tells me you are.” Radu bit back a groan and his jaw clenched. He couldn’t get himself under control and his cock hardened further beneath Dietrich’s hand.  
  
“Goddamn it, Dietrich! I don’t have time to play with you!” he ground out and the teen loosed a delighted giggle. His merriment faded and his hand tightened.  
  
“And I say you _do_!” he snapped, observing the Methuselah’s current discomfort. The pain radiated outward from the apex of Radu’s thighs and his knees threatened to buckle. Dietrich’s strings were like barbwire within the sensitive tissue and Radu sucked in tortured breaths through grinding teeth. “I had no idea you were such a masochist,” Dietrich purred when Radu gasped and the expression he displayed sent an interested jolt down the young man’s midline. “You’re full of surprises, handsome!”  
  
“Ah, Gods!” Radu heaved a heavy exhale as the torture receded, replaced by a warmth. The strings abandoned their bite for a softer cloak– like metres of silk ribbon that caressed Radu’s nerves. Dietrich smiled as the pain left the Methuselah’s face and he tilted his head. “See, I can be reasonable,” he soothed and Radu opened his eyes.  
  
Dietrich leaned against Radu, his lips brushing the small white gold hoop that hung from the man’s earlobe. “My marionettes dance as I direct. They do what I want them to do, feel what I want them to feel.” Radu remained silent as Dietrich’s tongue flicked the jewellery and his eyes hooded when the younger man’s thigh nudged between his legs. “They are always willing to please.”  
  
Neurostrings, months without sex, whatever– Radu couldn’t put a finger on why his will was eroding. Dietrich’s warm body clouded his reason and the groan he’d tried so hard to contain wrenched itself free when the redhead ran his tongue along the column of his throat.  
  
Dietrich was pleased with the way his quarry acceded. Radu was the best thing he’d dragged out of the gutter of antipathy since dear Esther, though their short time in István never afforded him an uninterrupted chance to test his control on her. A damn shame, in his opinion. But Isaak had allowed him bring the Imperial bastard into the Orden and whereas Radu and he would need to iron out a few wrinkles, Dietrich supposed the vampire would prove to be an apt canvas. The only time he’d bent another to his total will was when he’d mindfucked his parents into an early grave and he hadn’t really been trying. Radu was a whole new opportunity to see what he could do with someone he wanted _alive_.  
He’d be sure to thank Isaak properly later.  
  
Radu’s flesh carried the subtle tang of soap and Dietrich eased his control, wanting to see if the Methuselah would continue to respond without the neurological prompts. Arms wrapped around his back and one of Radu’s hands fit into the copse of hair to cup Dietrich’s skull. “I hate you, Terran,” he stated against pale lips, and Dietrich closed the gap in a rush of breath.  
  
Dietrich dominated the liplock for a few moments, his tongue stroking Radu’s. Isaak tasted like his cigarillos and brandy– usually, unless he’d fed. Radu tasted like smoke too, but with the addition of what Dietrich quickly ascribed to ozone; a sort of sweet-metallic flavour. The kiss broke when Radu’s fist tightened within the cinnamon locks and he glared down at the youth. “You can’t make me want you,” Radu quietly protested and Dietrich leaned back to look at him.  
  
“Au contraire, Flamberg,” he rejoined and drew the pad of a finger around the man’s pierced navel. His hand feathered down to open the single button at the waistband of Radu’s trousers and the hush of the zipper as it slowly parted sent a responding sigh from Dietrich’s lips. Thin fingers dipped just beneath the waist of Radu’s underclothes. “I can make you _crave_ me,” he told him and when his hand burrowed further to touch the hardened length within the silk, Radu sucked in a breath and Dietrich simply murmured an approval.  
  
Dietrich’s palm mimed the curvature and began a painfully slow stroke. “I can make you beg, make you go mad with desire to…” Again his lips found the Ifrit’s ear. “..fuck me,” he whispered and Dietrich felt Radu’s cock twitch in his hand. Radu tipped his head back. It was becoming increasingly difficult to rein in his libido. The Terran was frotting his own need against his thigh and the scent of Dietrich’s arousal melded with his own to assault him.  
  
  
The deeper their kiss plummeted, the more Radu’s body yielded but he pulled away, nonetheless. Dietrich surrendered the other’s tongue and an evil smile bloomed when Radu’s brows knotted in discomfort. “It’s better if you don’t struggle, Barvon,” he instructed against his lips and drew his hand from the Methuselah’s cock. Dietrich then sucked on his finger, sampling the moisture that veiled it. Radu intently watched the digit disappear between Dietrich’s lips and when the teen dropped his hand to let it skate down his bare chest, dark blue eyes fell to the softly pulsing flesh of Dietrich’s throat.  
  
From above the neckline of Dietrich’s mock turtleneck, pale skin called to Radu; the siren song of fresh blood that had to be a damn sight better than a tablet dropped into a glass of wine– the occasional addition of opium, notwithstanding.  
  
Dietrich glanced upward from his roving hands and a hushed giggle disturbed the quiet. “Oh, I see,” he said, sotto voce and took a step back from the man, a hand now brushing cinnamon locks away from his left shoulder. “Is this what you want?” Dietrich turned his head to bare his neck with a shadowed smile and Radu’s eyes narrowed.  
  
“You shouldn’t so carelessly offer your throat to a _vampire_ , boy,” he faintly warned with a hint of venom. Every nerve ending was singing within the Methuselah to take what Dietrich so cavalierly forced on him and damn the consequences. Somewhere in the recesses of Radu’s mind, a voice protested; tried to force the devil’s will out. His body had easily given in to the promise of pleasure and Dietrich was famous for pressing his luck but in a moment of lucidity, Radu realised the brat wasn’t who he should be worrying about– he’d have to answer to Isaak.  
  
Each doubt that throbbed beneath the control of Dietrich’s neurostrings was answered with a acute pressure in his brain. “Isaak– “ he grunted and ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. “You belong…”  
  
“I’m sure he’d like to think that, yes,” Dietrich interrupted. “A dick does not a master make, my dear Baron Luxor.” he opined along Radu’s throat.  
  
“Dietrich,” Radu murmured but was silenced when the younger man ran the edges of his teeth over his collarbone. The strings were choking the last remaining bastions of logic from his brain. With velvet fingers they stroked Radu’s self-control, seduced it to a singular aim and when the tip of Dietrich’s tongue trailed up the underside of his jaw to impart a soft bite around his chin, resolve departed on a hot breath and the teen’s back forcibly met the wall.  
  
Several marionettes swung on their strings when the pair passed them and Dietrich had the wind knocked out of him with the impact. The back of his head smarted but his body telegraphed in no uncertain terms its delight. As Radu plundered every corner of his mouth, Dietrich fit hands between them to undo his own belt, sucking on the Ifrit’s invading tongue. He’d tried to mind Radu’s fangs but winced when his lip caught on one of them.  
  
Radu broke the kiss and focused on the boy’s lip then caught his wicked eyes. The tip of his tongue captured the drop that had been deposited at the corner of his own mouth then disappeared. Dietrich observed the way the vampire’s eyes dilated as he had his first taste of raw blood. “Like that?” he taunted before Radu spun him to face the wall.  
  
Not a word passed from Radu as he yanked Dietrich’s belt free of the trousers. His breath puffed the hair behind the teen’s ear while he grasped the waistband and sharply tore the cloth down the back seam. A quiet chuckle vibrated Dietrich’s throat and he grinned over his shoulder at the lustful gaze that seemed very much at home on the Methuselah’s face. He absently wondered how many others were privileged to see the look he was now granted, but the thought was whisked away on a cuspate gasp as he was entered without preparation.  
  
Radu growled into the nape of the younger man’s neck, his hips snapping forward in a harsh rhythm that drove counterpoint to Dietrich’s lascivious moans. He had a bruising grip on the boy’s hip, while the other hand fisted in thick burnished locks. Dietrich kept his hands pressed against the wall and used what limited leverage they afforded to meet each thrust. It was wrecking his concentration and the control he had began to slip but it mattered little. If Radu was like every other male on the planet, wild horses wouldn’t make him stop expertly drilling him through the wall. “Harder!” Dietrich bid, his nails scraping the cement and as the mental stranglehold somewhat ebbed, Radu favoured his ear with an ominous chuckle of his own.  
  
“You couldn’t handle harder, Terran!” he barked and slammed Dietrich’s wrists to the wall. The neurostrings loosened further and Dietrich cried out as Radu’s cock relentlessly pounded his prostate.  
  
“Ohfuckyess!” he panted and rolled a wrist in an attempt to free it from the Methuselah’s grip. It wouldn’t budge and he relented. “Fine then, jack me off!”  
  
Radu ignored the command, keeping his focus on how exquisitely tight Dietrich was– contrary to all his suspicions. In his short time with the Orden, he’d heard about the boy’s dalliances and now his name would be added to the list.  
  
Dietrich’s whipcord-thin body undulated against him, the sounds he made and the prurient litany that issued from kiss-swollen lips ratcheted the Ifrit’s arousal into the red but Radu wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of the proverbial reach-around.  
  
A coolness washed through Radu’s body as Dietrich’s strings dissolved one by one but his own urge spurred him on to completion, enabled as it was by the hellspawn’s mantra of ‘ _fuck me_ ’. As if emerging from a fog, his senses sharpened and the scent of blood that fiercely pumped beneath fragile skin tugged at Radu’s base nature– a sanguine pledge that tempted as surely as the smooth heat that sheathed him.  
  
Radu tilted his head and tore through Dietrich’s shirt with his teeth. The thin cloth easily parted, Radu licked the side of the Terran’s neck and Dietrich cried out, heralding the orgasm that tensed his lithe body, the rigour of his release clamping down on the length inside him. Radu growled and after a few thrusts, reached his own end, fangs bared long enough to then plunge into the join of Dietrich’s shoulder.  
  
Dietrich screaked and one of Radu’s arms fit around his waist, the hand splayed along his stomach as he fed. The boy’s blood was sweet and he lost himself in the almost cloying flavour; the way it invaded his tissues like an electrical charge. It was heady, orgasmic and Radu felt his cock throb as a second, more subtle wave of release hit him. Dietrich was pushing back against him, in an effort to disengage the Methuselah. “Radu!” he snarled and thrust an elbow into his midsection.  
  
He withdrew his fangs; depthless breaths doing little to assuage this new-found compulsion. He wanted more. Radu licked his lips and watched Dietrich slip to the floor, his forehead resting against the wall as he tried to pull himself together. A drop of blood trickled from the twin punctures and Radu rescued it on the tip of his finger then licked it away. Seeing the redhead take gulp after gulp of air gave Radu pause as troublesome reality stripped him of the euphoria that enrobed him. Eyes widened, he fastened his trousers as he took several steps backward from the younger man.  
  
Dietrich turned to look over his shoulder at the retreating vampire and an unpleasant simper grew to life. “See? You’re _mine_ , Flamberg,” he affirmed and the unholy descant of Dietrich’s laugh followed Radu as he grabbed his jacket and left the room.


	2. Sophistry's Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dietrich goes above and beyond the call of insolence and Isaak is there to ensure the devil gets his due.

Dietrich stepped from the shower and quickly dried his body. He looked at himself in the mirror, his focus trained on the wounds that graced his neck. They’d stopped bleeding, at least, but the surrounding tissue was inflamed. He gingerly touched the marks then rooted through the sink drawer for a roll of bandage. “Fucking bastard,” he grumbled as he cut a square of gauze then folded it. Dietrich taped the bandage firmly then finger-combed his damp hair and exited into the small bedroom he’d been afforded at the Orden’s mansion.  
  
As he dressed in his uniform, Dietrich’s mind replayed the tryst with Radu. He couldn’t have manipulated the Ifrit better, though it did trouble him that getting fucked robbed him of total control. Something to work on in future. A smile graced his face as he wove his tie in a double windsor and adjusted the knot– Radu was the perfect subject for his experiments. The last time Dietrich had tried to direct Isaak with his strings, he lost the use of his hands for a week, and the ability to remain seated for any length of time in the same instance.  
  
After tucking his trouser legs into the shanks of his boots, Dietrich went to the table beside his bed and lifted a glass vial from a mirror tray. He touched both sides of his neck with the myrrh oil then opened several buttons on his dress shirt to draw his fingertip along the midline of his chest. If Isaak were there, Dietrich was sure the mage would comment on him ‘tarting himself up’. Buttons refastened, he grabbed his jacket and walked out of the room, slipping it on as he briskly walked toward the western wing.  
  
  
Isaak sat in a leather chair near the fireplace, an old book in hand. The soft glow of shaded lamps lent a visual warmth to his library, accompanying the hearth’s output. Bereft of his uniform jacket and gloves, Isaak luxuriated in the simple comforts afforded him. Though his eyes glided over the print, his mind was not still. There were staff evals coming up, acquisitions to parse through and the expense reports were two weeks overdue. He needed a holiday but there wasn’t time to dwell on such frivolity. Cain was only so understanding and though the minutiae didn’t interest Crusnik in the least, Isaak would never presume to keep him waiting for anything.  
  
Isaak’s attention lifted from the page as he detected his protégé’s aura and a clipped smirk passed before he resumed his place in the book. Already, he sensed something off about the lad, but he found it amusing to see how the evening would play out. Dietrich could never keep a secret; his arrogance would never permit it.  
  
Dietrich softly rapped on the door and announced himself then opened the tall double doors wide enough to slip through. They closed behind him and a seraphic smile lit on his lips. “Good afternoon, Herr,” he said with a respectful yet brief bow of his chin. Isaak returned an understated tip of his head and glanced at the ornate clock on the teen’s left.  
  
“Good _evening_ , Dietrich,” he corrected then turned a page, the soft sound of the paper shuffling. Dietrich looked behind him at the clock and loosed a sheepish giggle as he stuffed hands in his trouser pockets.  
  
“Ah, yes. About that.” His gaze rolled over to the heavy draperies that shut out the dying light of the sun then fell on the holomap generator at the back of the room. “I know I’m tardy, Sir.” Isaak continued reading, though the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.  
  
“You’re more than tardy, Dearest. You’re _late_ ,” he stated evenly and marked his place with the book’s leather ribbon, it then resting on his crossed thigh as he finally looked at his charge. “Dietrich, don’t slouch,” Isaak murmured and the redhead pulled his hands out of his pockets.  
  
“I have a good explanation!” Dietrich claimed and Isaak quickly rebutted.  
  
“Which I’m waiting to hear.”  
  
“May I sit?” Dietrich asked and Isaak wordlessly waved to an empty chair then shifted slightly in his seat to face him, watching the boy sit. Dietrich crossed an ankle over knee and folded his hands in his lap. “I was in my workshop and I lost track of the time,” he told his mentor and Isaak laid his book on the endtable then propped his chin in the cup of his hand.  
  
“I see,” he replied and rolled his crossed ankle. “Must have been hard at work, hmm?” Dietrich let out a breathy chuckle and nodded.  
  
“Yes. I’m working on a modified chip for our Autojägers. I think it should be ready to bench test in the next couple of weeks,” he revealed with a grin. It wasn’t a total lie, he had been working on it– just not today! Isaak dropped his hand to rest his arm, his focus trained on Dietrich. The boy was meticulously dressed and the light scent of myrrh crossed the room to tease his senses, along with an unknown undertone. Isaak put it aside and continued.  
  
“Can I deduce then that your swarthy neophyte delivered my message, but failed to impress upon you that it wasn’t a request?” he asked and Dietrich quelled the leer that wanted to bloom.  
  
“He delivered it, yes.” He bit the side of his tongue and resumed. “Though I wasn’t informed that it was urgent,” Dietrich explained and Isaak waved it away. He rose and crossed to a writing desk to retrieve a dossier.  
  
“Well, you’re here now,” he remarked and showed Dietrich the file. “I’ll need this month’s expense report and– “ Isaak paused. “Are you wearing myrrh, Liebling?” The youth nodded, his head slightly wobbly from the about-face the mage took. A hinted smile passed over Isaak’s face and he pivoted to set the file down again. Fingertips ran along the folder then departed and he glanced at the mahogany cabinet stationed between two tall bookshelves. “Would you make a drink for me?”  
  
Dietrich held the mage’s gaze for a moment then uncrossed his legs to stand. “Of course,” he answered and paced over to the cabinet. Isaak had never asked him to make a drink before. Caramel eyes sought out the other. “Um, what would you like?” Isaak fit a cigarillo between his lips.  
  
“Absinthe,” he said around the stick and watched Dietrich select one of the _Pontarlier_ glasses. The tip of the cigarillo flirted with his lower lip but was put back in its case. A dose of the green liqueur was poured and Dietrich set a perforated spoon on the lip. He opened one of the cabinet drawers to get two sugar cubes and when he stood, Isaak was behind him. “Do you know the ritual, mein Schatz?” he asked quite close to the teen’s ear. Dietrich set one cube onto the spoon and popped the other in his mouth.  
  
“Yes,” he affirmed around the sweet square and lifted a water pitcher. “You slowly pour the water over the sugar, and–“ Dietrich’s voice faded as Isaak drew in a breath, the tip of his nose drawing an arc from behind his ear and into his hair. The scent of myrrh carried into his nostrils, along with a sweet-metallic suggestion and Isaak’s bitter smile passed unseen into Dietrich’s soft hair. “Isaak?” he sighed, setting the ewer down. His lips parted as the mage brushed cinnamon hair from the nape of his neck to kiss it.  
  
Isaak’s other arm wrapped around his boy to undo the buttons of Dietrich’s jacket and before he could go further, Dietrich captured his questing hand. “Not tonight, Isaak. I have a headache,” he told him and the raven withdrew from the teen’s nape, seeking out his ear once more, his fingers sifting through Dietrich’s hair.  
  
“That’s a shame,” he whispered, the heat of his breath hovering a few centimetres above the concealed wound at the join of Dietrich’s shoulder. The sensation punctuated the discomfort he still felt below. Having his mentor screw him would only make it worse. Isaak took a step back and gently took Dietrich by the arm, directing him away from the abandoned drink. “I’ve told you time and again to take a break when you’re doing that computer work,” he schooled and reclaimed his seat by the fire. Isaak eased Dietrich down into his lap, the boy’s back to him and slipped the jacket from his arms with Dietrich’s assistance.  
  
“But Isaak, I…” Dietrich half-heartedly protested, a puzzled brow on display to the room. Isaak shushed him and ran hands down Dietrich’s arms.  
  
“It’s been my experience that headaches often emanate from shoulder tension; the superiour trapezius, to be specific.” Isaak leered at the young man’s back, his hands retracing their trek to the area in question. They rested there and he leaned in closer. “Moderate tissue massage quite often ameliorates it.”  
  
Isaak began the massage and Dietrich’s face twisted in silent pain. He bit his lip, fighting to remain quiet but a muted groan broke free. Isaak’s eyes lidded as he gently kneaded the muscles, his thumbs drawing upward on either side of Dietrich’s spine. “Feel good?” he purred and the boy stole a breath.  
  
“Yes, much better,” he assured laconically, his hands harshly gripping the armrests of Isaak’s chair. The mage could feel a lump beneath his right hand and gave the muscle beneath it a firmer squeeze. Dietrich’s jaw locked and he hung his head, breathing through his nose. The pain spread to his right shoulder and when Dietrich was about to beg his mentor to stop, Isaak lifted his hands from him.  
  
“Perhaps a warm soak is in order, ja?” he opined and Dietrich moved to stand. Isaak’s hand clamped the boy’s upper arm, keeping him in place, and he turned to look at the older man over his left shoulder.  
  
“I can’t really do as you ask, sitting here,” he said and Isaak loosed an ominous chuckle.  
  
“When in the hell do you _ever_ , Dietrich?” he countered. His hand travelled around the teen’s hip to cup his backside and he reached for the bell cord with his other. An automated attendant appeared shortly after and Isaak leaned back in his seat. “Draw a bath for Herr von Lohengrin,” he ordered and when the maid left, he urged Dietrich to straddle him, both hands now laying along the pleasant curvature of his charge’s ass. He noted the slight twinge beneath one of Dietrich’s eyes.  
  
“I don’t need a bath, Isaak,” he insisted and Isaak cocked his head.  
  
“Would you rather have a painkiller, Liebling?” His brows lifted. “You know what Demerol does to you and I’m afraid I’m all out of morphine, unless you’d like to milk some poppies; though I wouldn’t advise it in your condition,” he said with a ersatz smile and Dietrich manoevered himself out of the chair.  
  
“No!” Dietrich exhaled then showed his mentor a marginally penitent grin. “I’ll be fine in the morning. I’m just tired,” he fussed and put a hand through his hair. Isaak arched a brow and with a put-upon sigh, got to his feet. He fingered a strand of hair from the boy’s eyes and hung on a fabricated look of concern.  
  
“I have no doubt you are,” the mage consoled as the back of his index finger caressed Dietrich’s soft cheek. “And yet you found the élan to bathe and wear one of your best uniforms.” Isaak’s finger slipped beneath the teen’s chin to tilt his head up. “To what do I owe the courtesy?” Isaak stepped past Dietrich to reclaim his cigarillo case and selected a black stick. He tapped the end against the metal case, his back to the younger man.  
  
Dietrich felt like he’d been pinned to a swatch of velvet for careful observation. Isaak was acting odd– after all, the raven never left a drink untouched nor went longer than ten minutes without one of his smokes. As Isaak’s back was turned, Dietrich touched where the bandage laid beneath his shirt then looked at his fingers. They were clean and he freed a silent sigh of relief, though his gaze fell down the shiny length of his mentor’s hair. To repel Isaak’s advances would surely lead to suspicion and Dietrich wasn’t in the mood to explain himself further.  
  
As Isaak lit his cigarillo, he felt Dietrich’s hands sifting through the long strands of his hair. “Have you ever though about binding me with your hair, Isaak?” the boy drawled and let the locks slide like silk from his fingers. The idea did have merit but Isaak spared the wall a private grin then exhaled a ribbon of smoke.  
  
“It was my understanding you had a headache, pet,” he reminded him and licked his lower lip of the cigarillo’s flavour. Dietrich gathered Isaak’s hair in his hands once more and brought it to his nose, the scent of frankincense subtle within the jet strands. He kissed them and Isaak turned to face him, the smoke slowly rolling from parted lips as their eyes met.  
  
“I did but I feel much better now,” Dietrich told him with a seductive grin and toyed with the mage’s tie. “Besides, didn’t you teach me to always say _thank you_?” he purred and Isaak lifted Dietrich’s hand from the garment to press a kiss on it, an answering smirk cresting over the ridge of knuckles.  
  
“Did you thank Flamberg for fucking you?” he evenly asked and Dietrich blinked, his heartrate jumping as Isaak dropped his hand in favour of lending a patronising pat to his boy’s cheek. Isaak passed him, heading for the cabinet and the abandoned drink. One puff more and his cigarillo was pressed out in the tray.  
  
Dietrich’s gaze followed him and he put his back to the table. “What?” He stammered through a few unintelligible words and Isaak’s sharp leer snipped them in half.  
  
“His scent is on you, despite your insipid attempt to obscure it,” he replied and picked up the water pitcher. An even, slow stream poured over the sugar cube to drip into the dose below, altering the peridot colour of the absinthe to a milky beryl. Isaak set the spoon to the side and lifted the ornate glass. Dietrich rested his backside against the edge of the table and crossed his arms with a snide ogle.  
  
“Jealous?” he muttered with an arrogant tip of his chin. “You _did_ instruct me to play with my toys, Meister. And you’re right, such rare things shouldn’t be left on a shelf to collect dust.” Isaak took a sip of his drink then crossed the floor to his chair. Moving his hair to the side, he sat and crossed his legs. The brat was trying his damndest to get under his skin and Isaak could only snort into the glass.  
  
“Jealous, you ask? My dear Dietrich, I would find that amusing, if it weren’t so patently vapid,” he remarked and tipped the glass in a toasting fashion then brought it to his lips. Dietrich’s brows knotted. He was being dismissed and it made his blood boil. Isaak was always so cool about everything and could deflect the harshest barbs– it pissed him off! Perhaps he could appeal to the mage’s ego.  
  
Dietrich dropped his arms and sauntered over to him. He put hands to the armrests of Isaak’s chair and bent to come even with his handsome face. “You know,” he started smugly. “He’s wanted me ever since he came to the Orden, Isaak.”  
  
“Frankly, I’m surprised you waited this long,” Isaak said flatly and swirled his glass. “Though credit where due, you _are_ a good fuck, Geliebter.” Dietrich loosed an airy chuckle but wouldn’t be deterred.  
  
“Of course I had to get rid of the clothes I had been wearing.” He touched the tip of his tongue to a tooth. “You see, in Radu’s zeal, he pretty much ruined them to get at me.”  
  
“Hmm, we’re on first-name terms now, are we?” Isaak commented with a dark grin and rested a hand in his lap. Caramel eyes narrowed deviously and he licked the seam of his lips. Dietrich leaned in closer and could smell the anise the drink imparted to his mentor’s remark.  
  
“ _Radu_ rolls off the tongue so much better when you’re having trouble catching your breath, Herr,” he snickered and glanced upward as if in thought, then met the storm grey with a feigned sigh. “Gods, Isaak. I’m still sore– probably the best fuck I’ve ever had,” Dietrich knifed and Isaak finished his drink. The boy had pulled out all the stops but he still had a grin for his protégé.  
  
“You used a lot of material, there,” he stated and set his glass on the endtable. “I take it, then, I shall henceforth be free of your near-nightly machinations?” Dietrich was losing and he knew it, but his cocky countenance remained and when he moved to straddle Isaak’s lap, he let him. Dietrich sat back and regarded him coyly.  
  
“Doesn’t it bother you?” He loosened Isaak’s tie, pulled it from the collar and let it fall to the floor. “That I got banged by my subordinate,” he baited and put hands to the mage’s shoulders. Dietrich slowly rolled his hips forward and back, long lashes fanning as he let out a whisper of a moan. Isaak caressed the boy’s hair with a humourless smile then put hands between them to remove Dietrich’s tie in kind. The silk joined its kith on the floor and he held those languidly undulating hips.  
  
“Should it bother me? How many times have we visited this tiresome subject, Dietrich?” he droned. Isaak’s thumbs pressed lightly in their hold before petting along the arcing bones beneath them. A soft exhale escaped Dietrich and he opened dilated eyes to peer at him. “Can the leopard change his spots; or indeed the whore his predilections?”  
  
Dietrich snorted and though Isaak’s indifference to his trysts was nothing new, it was maddening. He chewed his lower lip then neared those of his mentor, his breath washing over them. Dietrich’s eyes narrowed deviously, he would get a rise out of the raven if it took all night and he was ready to throw his trump card. “The feeling of Radu inside me was nothing, compared to his bite,” he whispered into the older man’s ear and the next thing Isaak heard was a quavering gurgle as his hand tightened around Dietrich’s throat.  
  
Thin fingers clawed at Isaak’s hand as Dietrich choked and a baleful leer bloomed on the mage’s lips. “Congratulations, little one. You got what you wanted,” he snapped, grey eyes darkening as he watched the teen squirm for air. Isaak squeezed harder and he could feel the delicate tissue beneath constrict.  
  
By the hand at his throat, Isaak pushed Dietrich from him. He landed on a hip and began coughing violently, hands pressed against the floor and head bowed. Reflex tears disrupted his view of the marble, which he had little time to ponder as he was lifted to stand by his hair. His head was yanked back and watery eyes collided with the raven’s brimstone glare.  
  
Isaak’s other hand ripped Dietrich’s shirt from the collar, leaving it hang and baring the bandage at the join of his neck. “That would explain this,” he said. “But why conceal it? Such distinctions should be flaunted, ja!” The bandage was torn from his skin and Dietrich winced. The faint scent of Baron Luxor’s saliva was more prominent to Isaak now that the compress had been removed, and he curled his fist around cinnamon strands, pitching Dietrich’s head back further. “How _dare_ you permit that inbred mongrel to mark you!” he growled and for the first time in a long time, the devil was terrified.  
  
“It’s not like I _let_ him! Isaak! Please!” Dietrich pled between his teeth, his arms hanging limply at his sides. The unnatural arch of his neck shot barbs of pain though the injured muscle and Isaak observed the twin marks begin to ooze plasma.  
  
“Victim or culprit? Which am I to believe now, my little trickster?” Isaak hissed and pivoted Dietrich’s head forward to hotly fix him. “Shall I tell you how it played out? I’m certain I could hazard a guess.” The tips of the mage’s fangs caught the firelight as he wove his tale. “You used those quaint strings of yours; a marginal push to help our dear Flamberg give into his lust for filthy Terran whores.”  
  
Dietrich’s heart raced, his breaths truncated and shallow. “I didn’t want him to bite me, Meister! I swear!” he cried and Isaak’s hand loosened then tightened anew. “I swear!” Dietrich repeated.  
  
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Marionettenspieler,” he counseled. “ ‘If you must play, decide upon three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time.’ “ Isaak pivoted with the boy and slammed him against the cherry wood paneling, rattling a few books in the adjacent shelf. Dietrich’s breath left him with the impact and he quickly sucked in a lungful of air then exhaled a groan. Hands had flown up to save him from breaking his nose and Dietrich left them where they were.  
  
“Radu took it upon himself to do it!” he protested. “I would never–“  
  
“And that’s why you saw fit to use it to further mock me, boy?!” Isaak hissed, the nails of his buried hand dangerously close to lacerating Dietrich’s scalp.  
  
“Meister, I’m sorry!” he whimpered, gasping when Isaak’s lips touched the shell of his ear.  
  
“You will be,” he affirmed. The hand holding Dietrich by the hair loosened to pin his head, fingers spread along the right side. Isaak glanced down at Radu’s bite pattern with narrowed eyes then struck, his teeth clamping over the mark. Dietrich howled as the man bit him, another quick inhale rushing past his lips when Isaak reared back. He heard the magician spit off to the side before seizing him again.  
  
Dietrich’s anguished cries echoed off the walls of the library when Isaak’s fangs cut deeper. There was no pleasure to be had as the raven held him against his chest and tore into his flesh. “Isaak…please!” the boy sobbed. He could feel his blood run down his chest and his head swam. The bite was wholly punitive and Isaak let his protégé’s blood breach his lips to weep in hot tears along Dietrich’s bared skin. Isaak’s fingers curled along the teen’s midsection and Dietrich’s body went limp as he lost consciousness.  
  
Withdrawing his fangs, Isaak ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. He lifted the hanging sleeve of Dietrich’s shirt and discreetly spit into it, ridding himself of the sanguine residue. The slut was lucky he was still of some use, in the mage’s opinion, but he damned his own pride and indeed his avarice where Dietrich was concerned. Dietrich was _his_ and he needed to learn what happens to foolish little boys when they play with fire.  
  
Isaak licked the wound, his saliva aiding to stave the bleeding then looked down on the partially turned head beneath his chin. “How senseless,” he murmured and held Dietrich to him as the shadows swallowed them both.  
  
~~~~***~~~~  
  
In the peripheral, Dietrich could hear music. He slowly opened his eyes, the light from a reddish glass lamp at his right delicately glowing. Several feet away, wood crackled in the fireplace and he blinked to focus on the canopy above. Swirls of black material drawn into a central knot met his gaze and Dietrich sighed. “A dream?” he whispered to himself.  
  
Dietrich looked at the wide hem of the sheet that covered him and the goldtone Greek Key pattern that was embroidered just above the stitch line. The pillow beneath his head was soft and he moved his right arm to prop himself up when a bolt of pain lanced through the limb. Dietrich groaned, gulping in a breath and realising his assumption was dead wrong. His left fist weakly punched the mattress beneath him and he sighed. With the aid of his good arm, he propped himself up to recline against the ornate headboard.  
  
The faint strains of harp floated through the air from the partially closed door and Dietrich took another look around, brows knotted. Surely he wasn’t in Heaven– he never pretended it would be the final stop for him. Besides, he rather doubted the Celestial looked anything like Isaak’s bedroom. The serene chords brought with them the scent of clove and the teen’s eyebrows shifted; now he _knew_ he was wide awake. He tipped his head back against the dark wood then peered at his right shoulder. It had been covered in fresh, white bandage and his bare chest was clean. Dietrich lifted the sheet to see he’d been clothed in a pair of loungepants. A hushed snicker left his lips and when he’d smoothed down the sheet and glanced up, Isaak was framing the doorway, dressed in a black silk brocade smoking jacket and matching pants, with arms loosely crossed. A new piece began to play behind him from a data cube in the outer room.  
  
“I see you’re finally awake,” he commented. Dietrich nodded and watched the man walk around the bed to sit at his right. Grey eyes assessed the dressing, testing the hold of the tape. Once he’d deemed it satisfactory, the mage got to his feet again and as he turned, Dietrich put a hand to Isaak’s forearm.  
  
“Isaak, I really didn’t…” His voice was quiet but he was hushed with a finger to his lips. Isaak wore a tenuous grin and Dietrich’s hand dropped.  
  
“ ‘I prefer silent prudence to loquacious folly’– Cicero,” he cited and Dietrich kissed the tip of the finger in wordless understanding. Isaak could have easily killed him and Dietrich wasn’t so much a fool to try the man again so soon. He would give the raven a wide berth for the time being and pretend to be the sweet, unassuming acolyte to his dark god. Dietrich absently wondered if he’d get extra for character work.  
  
“Please stay,” he murmured and Isaak stilled for a moment, considering the petition, then resumed his seat on the bed. Dietrich’s amiable smile passed between them and he leaned forward, supported by his left hand. In the silence between them, Isaak regarded the boy and after a moment reached out to smooth away a thick strand of hair from Dietrich’s eyes. After he’d had time to calm his ire while Dietrich slept, Isaak reviewed the logistics of what he’d seen and heard.  
  
The bite Radu had delivered was positioned in such a way that indicated he had been behind Dietrich and Isaak had been able to tell from the taste of the blood that Radu was intent on drinking. While feeding, the components of Methuselah saliva were purposed to act as an anti-coagulant and he hoped that Dietrich wouldn’t be so audacious as to willingly give the Ifrit the means to take his life. Then again, the boy always was a bit stupid. In short, Isaak had concluded that for once in Dietrich’s life, the brat was telling the truth.  
  
“You need your rest, childe,” Isaak told him and sifted a hand through the cinnamon locks. “And make sure you drink that tea.” The mage tipped his chin to the china cup and saucer that sat on the bed table. Dietrich spared it a glance.  
  
“I hate green tea, Isaak,” he weakly complained and Isaak reached for the cup. He held the saucer and gave Dietrich a pointed look.  
  
“Would you prefer an intravenous drip, then? I don’t have the time nor the inclination to play nursemaid with you, Dietrich,” Isaak rejoined and lifted the cup in silent offering. Dietrich defiantly held his gaze for a few beats then took the cup to his lips. The sweet scent of hibiscus and other herbs carried on the steam and he took a tentative sip, his thoughts on the beverage conveyed with the face he made. But Dietrich drank the tea in a go and handed the empty cup to the mage. A slight grin rushed across Isaak’s lips and he put the cup and saucer back on the table. “What a pleasant switch to have you obedient for once,” he remarked then sat back and Dietrich chafed.  
  
“Don’t worry, it won’t happen again,” he said blandly, the words leaving his mouth before he could censor them and Isaak chuckled.  
  
“Of that I have no doubt,” he responded and shifted to ease Dietrich back into the pillows. He positioned the boy’s arms and adjusted the sheet. Isaak cupped Dietrich’s cheek and the teen’s hand loosely fit around his wrist. He kissed Isaak’s thumb and moved his head in such a way as to draw the index finger to his parted lips. Dietrich’s gaze was intent on the man as he softly closed them around the digit and slowly engulfed it.  
  
Isaak’s brow twitched but he remained silent, watching the redhead languidly fellate his finger. “Another game, Dearest?” he asked after a time but Dietrich didn’t pause. The fold of his tongue cradled the digit and when it was nearly free of his mouth, he imparted a benign bite to the tip. The mage lazily rolled his wrist out of Dietrich’s grasp then traced those wicked lips. Two circuits of the soft flesh and Isaak slid his finger between them, his eyes shading as lips contracted and moist warmth enveloped it.  
  
Dietrich’s gaze remained on that of his mentor as he sucked on the finger and the look on Isaak’s face shot a barb of arousal down the teen’s midline. His darkened eyes and the slightest peek of sharp teeth caused Dietrich to meekly moan and he parted his lips to lend a lick up the underside of Isaak’s finger.  
  
Isaak couldn’t pretend the tantalising display didn’t have any effect on him, those lips lewdly promising what he knew all-too well the boy could deliver. He lowered his hand and Isaak’s gaze fixed on Dietrich as he lounged back, his arm supporting him. Caramel eyes hooded at the sight and he carefully moved forward, sitting on his left hip. Dietrich’s breathing was silent and shallow and he reclined further, his forearm holding him in position.  
  
Though it was uncomfortable, Dietrich reached out with his right hand to fondle the magician’s belt, his focus falling to the length of silk. The knot was easily untied and the garment fell partially open to reveal a strip of pale flesh from mid-chest to waist. Dietrich longed to lick along that narrow expanse, but that wasn’t part of the bargain Isaak’s intent stare had struck with him.  
  
The teen took his time opening the loose-fitting pants, brushing the side of a finger over the ridge of Isaak’s cock as he pulled open the drawstring loop. Dietrich coyly chewed the corner of his lip and eased the soft material down to free the hard length beneath. An approving hum vibrated on Dietrich’s lips and he tossed a demure look at the mage. “Thank you, Meister,” he purred then ran the flat of his tongue along the underside of Isaak’s cock and when he reached the head, Dietrich pressed a wet kiss to it.  
  
Above, Isaak drew in a hushed breath at the feel of the boy’s tongue and the following sloppy kiss. When their eyes briefly met, Dietrich slowly licked his lips then bent his head to take the raven into his mouth. A faint growl bubbled in Isaak’s throat and he watched his cock disappear between Dietrich’s criminal lips. After a few bobs of his head, Dietrich pulled off to run his tongue around the head, his saliva coating the sensitive crown. He barely nipped at the ridge and Isaak sucked in an aroused breath. Smiling to himself, the boy engulfed as much of the turgid shaft as he could, his throat muscles constricting as if he was trying to swallow Isaak whole.  
  
Isaak brushed hair away from the teen’s face, tucking a bit behind an ear, and fingertips glided over a smooth cheek as Dietrich worked him. When not otherwise occupied with pretty lies, his mouth was superlative. Isaak could never deny that, though he recognised his own role in moulding this beautiful daemon. He gently tapped the underside of the younger’s chin. “Look at me,” he whispered and when molten eyes rolled upward, his shaded as he palmed the back of Dietrich’s head.  
  
Dietrich moaned and tightened his mouth around Isaak as he slowly backed off. The mage’s cock sprung free of his lips and Dietrich tipped his chin to lave the mass of flesh below. Isaak’s hand clenched the back of the boy’s head, holding him in silent order to continue the delicious torment, a subvocal purr conveying his enjoyment.  
  
Carefully, Dietrich drew one between his lips and Isaak rolled his hips against his face, his fingers curling into cinnamon hair. “Exquisite,” he breathed and Dietrich lent the sphere a gentle suck then raised his head to smile at his mentor. This was the one control Isaak could never forbid– power over the pleasure the man felt– and in some ways, Dietrich thought it better even than his neurostrings. His musings sent a throb to his own cock and he pressed his hips against the mattress with a light sigh.  
  
Dietrich’s glance spoke of devotion and he rubbed the side of his cheek along Isaak’s shaft and when the head reached his parted lips, it smoothly slipped inside the wet heat of his mouth. The fine scent of the boy’s deep arousal rode within the thin sheen of sweat that veiled his skin and Isaak quietly inhaled the deadly toxin.  
  
“I want you, Isaak,” Dietrich pled on a breath and Isaak slowly opened his eyes to look down at him. His protégé wove such a delightful ruse– wet, swollen lips and the shallow breaths that teased the head of his cock sought to beguile him. Were it any other time, Isaak would have thrown Dietrich on his face and fucked him until he bled, but he refused to allow the devil to further dictate his lust.  
  
“Focus, Dietrich,” Isaak responded and cupped the back of his head to direct him down again. Dietrich’s frustration left his nostrils and he leaned on his left arm to give him better leverage. He couldn’t lay flat because of the angle and he couldn’t take care of his own cock, due to his injury. So he used the mattress beneath him.  
  
Isaak’s gaze drifted over Dietrich’s head to observe his small backside undulating in fluid arcs as he humped the bed and the mage loosed an amused exhale. “If you come on my eight hundred-Dinar coverlet, you’ll be cleaning it up with your tongue, boy,” he murmured without rancor and Dietrich responded with a meaningful suck, his moan vibrating around the length.  
  
Dietrich quickened his pace, picking up on the cues Isaak’s body conveyed; the way his breathing changed, how his cock surged. Isaak’s eyes were the sort of grey found in a thunderstorm– an intense eddy that never failed to turn Dietrich on. A taste of precome along the flat of his tongue and the teen gasped around him as he came, the sticky warmth making a mess of his pants.  
  
Isaak growled his release, the hand in Dietrich’s hair holding his head still as he filled his mouth and throat muscles rippled to swallow the offering. Dietrich lazily withdrew and rested his head on the mage’s thigh as he caught his breath. Isaak’s fingers petted through his protégé’s hair and he let a few minutes of silence pass between them. Dietrich excelled at giving head and Isaak felt the corner of his mouth curl upward at the thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d been on the receiving end of this particular brand of attrition and– given the boy’s track record– it likely wouldn’t be the last.  
  
Isaak caressed a high cheekbone then touched Dietrich’s shoulder. “Go clean up, mein Schatz,” he instructed and the teen reluctantly sat up.  
  
Dietrich really didn’t want to leave the warmth of the bed but he put feet to the floor and stood. As he walked past, he let his touch glide over Isaak’s shoulder and along his upper back, fingertips drawing the man’s hair with them before they fell out of reach.  
  
When Dietrich left the room, Isaak loosed a heavy exhale and adjusted his pants. He came to his feet and tied the belt of his smoking jacket then headed for the outer room. Isaak heard the sound of water and he paced around his desk to light a cigarillo. The perfumed nicotine made repeat visits to his lungs and a smirk raised as Isaak clamped the stick between his teeth and pick up his desk phone.  
  
The magician drew on the cigarillo as he pressed a few numbers, the blue-grey exhale ribboning from the corner of his mouth while he waited. Isaak pivoted to leer at the bathroom door and his velvet voice purred into the receiver as elegant fingers withdrew the cigarillo from his lips. “Good evening, my dear Barvon,”


	3. Quid Pro Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaak is denied, Radu confronts his past and Dietrich has a meltdown.

The sun dipped below the horizon, throwing the Orden lands into lengthening shadows outside a tall office window. An automated attendant tied back the heavy curtains with goldtone ropes, their decorative tassels hanging as if in effigy. Pacing to his desk, Isaak slipped on gloves and adjusted the belt of his shorter jacket while the maid stacked logs in the fireplace. He was due to see Radu at some point in the evening but the Ifrit would do well to stew for a bit, as far as he was concerned. After stoking the wood, she rose and bowed to the mage. “Herr von Lohengrin extends an invitation to join him for dinner, Sir,” she related and Isaak pocketed his cigarillo case then tossed the servant a half-grin.  
  
“Convey my regrets,” he replied as he exited.  
  
  
Lounging in an overstuffed chaise, Cain’s pale skin reflected the myriad white candles that flickered from several standing candelabra stationed around the high-ceilinged and windowless room. He toyed with a long-stemmed white rose, seemingly lost in thought as a melodious tenor voice sang an old Orthodox hymn from the corner.  
  
Isaak quietly shut the door behind him and crossed the marble floor towards the seated Crusnik. He spared the singer a glance then went to a knee before Cain. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mein Herr,” he said and looked up at the man. The blonde brought the rose to his lips and drew it across them then met Isaak’s gaze over the pristine bloom. The mage rested his forearm along his bent knee. “I seek your council on a most delicate matter, Highness. I–“ Cain’s free hand commanded silence and after a minute or two, Cain deigned to acknowledge his subordinate.  
  
“Such a voice should be heard in the presence of God,” Cain opined softly and he lowered his hand to gesture towards the seated Terran. “How it came by this gift, I’ll never know. _They_ were forsaken centuries ago.” Isaak turned his head to look at the canter once more. He couldn’t have been older than Dietrich and was dressed in flowing white silks. His dark hair framed his sublime, olive-skinned face and both of Isaak’s brows lifted. “It’s blind, you know,” Cain revealed with a warm grin and drew the rose along Isaak’s jawline. He shifted his focus back to his superiour.  
  
“How did you acquire such an exquisite find, Mein Herr?” Isaak murmured and took the proffered seat at the foot of the chaise. The boy’s pure and lyrical Greek echoed in perfect pitch and though Isaak was anxious to get on, he could surely take a moment to appreciate talent when he heard it.  
  
Cain’s fingertips toyed with the flower, tracing the velvet petals in delicate spirals. Arctic blue rolled upward and he stilled his hand. “The Marquis of Macedonia sent it in tribute. I told His Excellency that wasn’t necessary but he insisted,” Cain told him with a light chuckle and laid the rose across his abdomen to receive the glass Isaak handed him. The raven poured himself a flute of the Macedonian liquour that apparently came with the boy then crossed his legs.  
  
“A fitting panegyric,” Isaak concurred as he brought the glass to his lips with a pleased smile. Krstovar Niš was a quick learner! The canter’s last note reverberated then faded and when the boy began a softly sung chant, Cain’s interest waned slightly, the faraway look he’d been favouring now lost. His eyes sharpened, and he propped a bare arm along the sloping side of the chaise.  
  
“What is troubling you, Magus?” he asked and took a sip from his flute, the honeyed libation delighting his palate. Isaak rested the foot of his glass against the seat cushion and related the matter of contention between he and their newest member. Cain intently listened, his own glass held by the hanging fingers of his propped arm. Long, alabastre legs crossed at the ankle and Crusnik’s tongue idly rode along the point of a fang.  
  
“I have not held Dietrich faultless in this, Mein Herr, and he has been made accountable for his part. However, I cannot overlook Barvon’s transgression, either,” Isaak stated and finished his drink. He set the fluted glass on its tray to the left of the chaise. Cain licked the seam of his lips.  
  
“I think it wise to keep your whore on a tighter leash, Isaak,” he suggested and took another sip then passed his glass over to the raven. “And do teach him not to provoke someone who could easily remove him from what’s left of this planet.” Isaak tabled the vessel and adjusted his seat.  
  
“Agreed. Though with respect, I am referring to the offense against me,” the mage reasoned and Cain threw an arm over his head as he lounged, drawing up a knee. His toes dug into the crease of the cushion and the germ of a smile hinted.  
  
“Blood Theft is a serious charge, Inamorata,” he remarked and raised a fine brow. “Tell me, what does _The Land of Make-Believe_ have to say about it?” Isaak quietly sighed and for a moment, his gaze shifted to one of the candelabra. The wax had formed a stalactite along one of the filagreed arms.  
  
“Imperial Law dictates it is punishable by death, Mein Herr.” Cain snorted, his head tipping back in a mocking giggle.  
  
“Altruism my ass,” he snickered and smirked at the other male. “And she claims to be a pacifist?” Cain shook his head.  
  
“I cannot speak on Imperial Law,” Isaak remarked and the blonde reclaimed the rose, taking in its subtle perfume.  
  
“Request denied, Isaak,” Cain said around the bloom and the mage bowed his head in respect. Isaak’s chin was tapped with the rose and he raised his head. “Baron Luxor is still heavily connected with _them_ and We will not allow such a valuable pawn to be destroyed simply because your pet got a little too familiar with him.”  
  
“Highness,” Isaak began, carefully choosing his words. “Am I to condone his blatant disregard of my proprietary?” He sighed, calming himself. “Perhaps the boy is a bit slow and I, in future, will be required to tie a black ribbon around Dietrich’s neck.”  
  
Cain’s laugh echoed in the hall and Isaak’s brow quirked, though he remained respectfully quiet as the being playfully swatted his thigh with the bloom. “What’s done is done,” Cain retorted and his smile faded as he met the man’s gaze. “We intend to use him in this little game until he’s knocked off the board.” He leaned forward to tap the rose against Isaak’s temple. “Use your loaf! Radu Barvon took something that belonged to you– so take something that belongs to him,” he prodded and traced Isaak’s jawline with the bloom then let it glide over his lips before setting it on the tray next to the half-empty glass.  
  
Isaak sat silent as he thought then finally nodded. “Yes, Mein Herr,” he replied and uncrossed his legs, preparing to leave. As Cain gracefully came to his feet, he spoke further.  
  
“Work it out however you wish, Magus. But I want him alive…for the time being,” he ordered and Isaak put a hand to his heart, showing due deference.  
  
“As you command,” he answered and Cain held out his hand with a knowing yet slight smile.  
  
“Your arm, my dear,” Crusnik muttered and Isaak stood to escort him into the bedchamber. It seemed Radu Barvon would have to wait a little longer.  
  
  
  
Radu sat on the divan, polishing his boots. Since the prior night, he’d been hashing out what he could possibly say to Panzermagier to convince the man not to kill him where he stood. He hadn’t slept but a handful of hours and though his appearance was impeccable, the faintest hint of dark circles hovered beneath his eyes.  
  
The air of his private room was thick with cigarette smoke and he pressed yet another into an overflowing tray. Radu considered opening a window, but what was the use. He’d be dead soon and it didn’t much matter what a corpse’s clothing smelled like. Would he be buried at all, or would Isaak find new and interesting ways of ensuring there wasn’t so much as a hair left to inter?  
  
Earlier, he’d had to join Dietrich for dinner and though he was loathe to be in the same country as the boy, he did as bade. All through the meal, the bitch leered at him and mercilessly flirted, paying extra close attention to cleaning the back of a spoon or capturing a drop of wine from his lying lips. It was all Radu could do to get through the hour, nevermind using every ounce of available will to pretend Dietrich wasn’t affecting him.  
  
  
 _”You know you’re in trouble, don’t you?” Dietrich had taunted around a particularly phallic breadstick then softly bit into it. “I wonder what he’ll do…”  
  
“It’s all your fault, Lohengrin! Why don’t you just leave me the hell alone!” Radu had angrily threw down his napkin and glared at the redhead. Dietrich showed him a closed smile as he chewed his mouthful then swallowed.  
  
“He’s only mad about the bite. Apparently bloodsuckers get their knickers in a twist when someone else samples what they think belongs to them.” Dietrich had arched a wicked brow then. “You should know that– being one of them!” He had taken a sip of wine then wiped a drop away from his lips with a fingertip and a lewd grin.  
  
“Knock it off, cretin,” Radu had growled and thought to ignore the boy, returning his attention to the fine meal in front of him. He really hadn’t been all that hungry, but anything was preferable to having to look at those eyes. Beneath the table Radu had felt the toe of Dietrich’s boot riding up his shin and dark blue eyes stabbed from under furrowed brows. “Can I help you?!” he had blurted and Dietrich had leaned forward to prop his chin in the cup of his palm, his free hand dredging the end of his breadstick through a saucer of herbed oil.  
  
“Tell you what, Flamberg. You survive and I won’t razz you about vampires not being able to control themselves,” he offered and brought the bread to his mouth with a purely lascivious grin. “And maybe I’ll suck your dick,” Dietrich added, tossed a mocking kiss on the air then parted his lips to lick the oil from the end of the stick._  
  
  
Radu lit up another cigarette, clamping it between his teeth as he gave the second boot a harsh polish, his gaze raising to the hole his anger had made in the wall when returning from what was likely his last meal. What a finish– having to listen to the Terran slut cover everything from his impending doom to their recent assignation, and now he had five cigarettes left until death. The Ifrit glanced over at the phone, loosed a sigh around his smoke and picked up a finer-weave rag to buff the leather to a high shine.  
  
Dietrich’s blood had been sweet, and that was the problem. It had to be _that_ brat, didn’t it?! Property of the second-in-command to Cain Himself and a Magus at that. Radu shook his head. As much as he railed at Dietrich for being stupid, he really was no better. Sure, it was the strings that made him throw all convention aside to nail the little bastard. But, if Radu was honest with himself, it really didn’t take that much prodding. The feeding was an unfortunate sidebar.  
  
Radu wasn’t all-together sure if Dietrich was telling the truth at dinner– that Isaak was only pissed off about the bite and didn’t seem to care about the rest of it. However, Radu reasoned as he slid on one of his boots, the other ones he’d heard about that screwed the boy were still living. Either that or they were doing a stellar job at acting. The other boot was donned and Radu sighed. At any rate, feeding from your boss’ regular piece of ass kind of trumped boning him like you owned him.  
  
The shrill sound of the phone brought Radu out of his musings and he tossed his polishing rag onto the table and crossed the rug to answer. “Barvon…yes of course, Herr von Kämpfer,” he spoke into the receiver then set it back on its cradle. Radu grabbed his nearly empty tin of smokes and headed out the door.  
  
  
Isaak sat behind his desk, legs elegantly crossed and the remnants of a recently-smoked cigarillo perfumed the air. He waved Radu to the chair opposite and watched him sit. The younger man’s shoulders were tense as he sat bolt upright in the seat. A few moments of silence passed between them and it gave Isaak great pleasure to observe the various nuances that ghosted over the Ifrit’s face. Radu swallowed and quietly cleared his throat. “I am prepared to receive my punishment, Herr,” he said with chin held high, certain that the mage’s judgment wouldn’t be any more lenient than if he were to have committed the same offense in the Empire.  
  
Steepling fingers at waist-level, Isaak regarded him with a curious lift of his lips. Cain’s edict was absolute and as much as he’d like due recompense, he could see the advantage of allowing the Methuselah to live. Isaak lit another cigarillo and held it perched between his fingers as he addressed Radu. “No attempt to defend yourself, Barvon? I’m surprised,” he remarked and took a drag from the black stick. “No cry of ‘the devil made me do it’?” Isaak’s mocking smile appeared behind the thin fog and Radu bowed his head.  
  
“No, Herr. My offense to you needs no profession,” he murmured and the mage tapped the end of his cigarillo in the tray.  
  
“Ah, guilt. The gift that keeps on giving,” Isaak drawled, his gaze falling on the lowered head of blue-black hair. “It is said that: ‘ Without the spice of guilt, sin cannot be fully savoured’– Chase,” he cited and Radu raised his head. Isaak was surely toying with him, like a large cat paws at his prey before going in for the kill. His eyes followed the raven around the desk and Radu averted his gaze when Isaak stood next to his chair.  
  
He felt the mage’s hand sifting through his hair and gloved fingers tipped his chin up. “Look at me, Luxor,” Isaak said and when dark blue rolled upward, he tightened his hold. “Mein Herr has decreed that you are to be pardoned your transgression–“ Radu spoke over him.  
  
“I understand, Master. I will… Excuse me?” Brows quirked, the Methuselah gaped; his brain frantically working to process what Isaak just said. “I can’t…I don’t…” In his hold, Isaak pressed his thumb over Radu’s lips.  
  
“Naturally it is not without conditions, boy,” he affirmed then removed his hand and the Ifrit nodded. “For some reason, His Highness sees a modicum of worth in you, though I’m not entirely convinced.” Again, thin fingers carded through Radu’s hair and grey eyes narrowed as language unfamiliar to Radu passed between Isaak’s lips.  
  
Immediately, he felt as if his insides were on fire and he gasped for breath, his head thrown back into the soft leather of his chair. Radu’s hands gripped the arms of his seat and reflex tears rolled down his cheeks; twin tracks that were tinted with his vitae. Isaak watched the younger man suffer, olive skin dotted with blood-tinged perspiration, and he took a leisurely pull off his cigarillo then extinguished it in the desk tray.  
  
Radu loosed harsh groans, wordless pleas riding on choked breaths. Isaak spoke a single word and the Ifrit cried out, the excruciating pain acutely focused on his fangs, the spell impairing his ability to extend them for time indeterminate. Isaak ran the back of a finger along Radu’s hot, soiled cheek and mentally released the first incantation, the Methuselah’s internal temperature then quickly regulating to within normal ranges.  
  
Screwing his eyes shut to rid them of the bloody tears, Radu then opened them to see Isaak holding out a folded handkerchief. Slowly he took it and cleaned his face with a shaking hand, the mage observing with a mildly interested grin. Isaak gestured toward the small wastecan at the corner of his desk and Radu deposited the stained cloth inside it and sat back.  
  
“There, now. That’s much better,” Isaak purred and pivoted to pull a cigarillo from an ornate box on his desk. He tapped the end of it against the lid and lit the tip. Puffing on it a couple of times, Isaak then perched it between Radu’s lips and patted the younger male’s cheek before returning to his seat behind the furniture.  
  
For a moment, Radu’s mouth gaped, the cigarillo precariously adhered to his bottom lip. It stung when he pulled it off and Radu’s eyes went from the expensive smoke over to the mage. “Uh, Herr. You’re..you’re not gonna kill me,” he stated more than asked and Isaak pulled a dossier from a standing file rack to his left.  
  
“Unfortunately not,” he blandly retorted, laying the folder on his blotter. He opened it and met the Ifrit’s confused gaze. “However, I do have a task for you.” Radu took a draw off the cigarillo then licked his lips of the lingering sweet it imparted. They tasted so much better than even his plain Turkish tobacco and the fact that Isaak wasn’t going to end his embarrassingly short life improved the flavour tenfold! Radu knew fortune when he saw it, and it was currently looking at him with a storm-coloured glance. “When you joined the Orden, you pledged fidelity to Mein Herr and the organisation; _‘For the betterment of Methuselah’_ , I believe you said at your swearing-in,” Isaak related and folded hands beneath his chin, elbows propped.  
  
“Yes, Sir. I did,” Radu affirmed and ashed his smoke, his confidence growing without the threat of death hanging over his head like the Sword of Damocles. A long draw sent the perfumed smoke into Radu’s lungs and he let the exhale slowly roll over his lips. Isaak looked up from the page he was reading to watch him smoke and his eyes narrowed slightly.  
  
“You gained a very promising patronage under the Duke of Tigris, which only lasted four years,” he quoted from the file and a thin black brow arched. “Lost your boyish charm, then?” Isaak asked with a knowing smirk and Radu frowned.  
  
“Our association changed after I graduated from the Academy. My education was complete,” Radu explained. “But the Imperial Council refused to recognise my petition to–“ Isaak cut in.  
  
“Were you his lover?” The slight dusting of pink to Radu’s high cheekbones was rather endearing and Isaak leaned with an elbow on the chair arm, propping his chin on the back of a hand.  
  
“I was,” Radu replied and suddenly, the glowing end of his cigarillo was of high interest. He broke the stare and looked up at Isaak. “With all due respect, Herr, I fail to see what this has to do with anything. I mean, I’ve only seen His Grace in an official capasity since I graduated.” Isaak casually moved his ashtray closer to the front of the desk then lit up himself. He crossed his legs and sat back.  
  
“One never forgets their first, boy,” he challenged with a thin smile. “But, that’s neither here nor there. It is known to us that Tigris heads a faction of insurgents,” Isaak stated. “You will re-establish contact with the Duke and you will advise him that any action he wishes to take against the current regime will be fully backed by the Orden.”  
  
“ _Stăpân_ , I– “  
  
Isaak tapped ash off the end of his smoke. “Baron Luxor,” he began and rolled the end of his cigarillo to a point in the tray to his right. “I cannot impress upon you too strongly the need for this relationship to be strengthened.”  
  
From his seat, Radu arched a brow and worried the finials of the chair arms. “And I cannot emphasise too strongly that it is a long shot at best,” he countered and when Isaak scoffed, Radu continued. “It’s been many years since I..since I had His Grace’s ear. I can’t just walk into his estate and pretend a five-year absence didn’t happen.” Isaak’s cigarillo tapped against his lower lip, and the Ifrit put out his own in the ashtray.  
  
“I can’t say I give a damn,” Isaak remarked. “Figure it out. I don’t care how you do it.” A quick glance down Radu’s body netted a phantom smile on Isaak’s face before he paused for a draw off the stick. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say. I’m certain His Excellency would welcome such a _pleasant recollection_ , ja?” His tongue curled around a fang and he exhaled a blue-grey wisp then pressed the stick into the ashtray.  
  
Radu sighed quietly. “Yes, Herr von Kämpfer,” he relented with an mirthless grin. Isaak put both feet on the floor and rose from behind his desk. He paced around the large piece and with a fluid motion, opened the antique drinks cabinet on the southern wall of his office. He poured himself a glass of claret then Radu felt cool fingers card through his hair.  
  
Isaak let the strands filter through the digits and traced the line of the Methuselah’s jaw to tip his chin up. Meeting Radu’s piercing eyes, Isaak cocked his head then let the corner of his mouth slightly curl. “ ‘Things which matter most must never be at the mercy of things which matter least’ – von Goethe.” Isaak purred and Radu nodded as soon as the mage dropped his hand and resumed his seat. He took a sip of the fine wine then put eyes to the other man. “Guderian will take you to the train station when you’re ready,” he told Radu and forwarded an envelope along the desktop. “I expect regular reports, of course. And do take this opportunity you’ve been given, boy.”  
  
“Thank you, Herr. I will not fail,” Radu assured and slid the envelope into his breast pocket, the iron cross there tinkling softly with the movement. Süleyman had for years bent his ear with dreams of conquest and fancies of what the Empire would be under his rule. The Duke _would_ hear him and Radu was intent on spending however long it took to remind him– if only to justify Cain’s faith in him.  
  
Radu stood and tipped his chin in respect then walked toward the door. Isaak’s smooth, even voice stopped his progress just as he’d put a hand to the doorknob. “One more thing, Radu. I am intrigued by your being. Such a rare creature,” he mused and Radu looked at the mage over the rise of his shoulder, his pleasant grin fading. “If you ever cross me again, my dear Barvon, I will sate my curiosity as I peruse your innards,” Isaak warned with an ominous smile. “You are dismissed.”  
  


~~~~******~~~~

  
  
  
“I’m afraid His Excellency is currently in the Imperial presence, Lord Luxor,” a female voice relayed and Radu shifted the receiver to his other ear as he gazed out the window of his private rail compartment.  
  
“Very well. Would you please have His Grace phone me when convenient?” He glanced at a placard on the wall. “06-297-3.” Radu hung up and crossed his legs when an attendant entered to serve the evening meal. He nodded at the person and allowed him to lay a serviette in his lap. The young male was quick with his work and after Radu had approved of the wine on offer, he bowed and made his exit.  
  
After the table was cleared, Radu set the envelope Isaak had given him on the polished surface. It now empty of the ticket that gained him passage on the train, the Methuselah batted it between his hands, the Rosenkreuz emblem stark against the bone-white field. He idly watched it move back and forth, lost in thought. Isaak really expected him to do whatever it took to make Süleyman agree to the Orden’s backing and the look in the mage’s eye emphasised _whatever_.  
  
Radu snorted, the envelope stilling beneath his fingertips. He was well aware that carnal persuasion often spoke just as loud as a formal discourse and he was somewhat loathe to go to those lengths, but… His mind immediately went to Dietrich and Radu softly cursed under his breath. “I’m just as much the Orden’s whore as he is,” he muttered and his fingers curled inward to crumple the paper into a ball, the side of his fist slamming into the tabletop.  
  
  
A carriage took Radu to the Duke’s estate and he looked down at himself. Dressed in his best Empire finery, he smoothed down the lapels of the thigh-length jacket and took a calming breath as the vehicle came to a stop. Radu stepped onto the cobbled pavement then paid the driver and donned his hat. The last time he’d been to the Tigris lands was before he’d joined Rosenkreuz, though nothing had changed. A sparkling fountain crowned the apex of the drive while on the vast lawns, peacocks held court. One had opened his tail feathers for a seemingly uninterested female and closer to the doors, hummingbirds flitted from flower to flower.  
  
Radu climbed the marble stairs and was shown inside the open foyer. The servant bowed then took the Methuselah’s hat with a smile. “It is good to see you again, Lord Luxor,” she said and laid his hat on the hall table. “His Excellency is most pleased you’ve called.” Radu spared her a thin grin.  
  
“Thank you, Tenea. I’m afraid I’ve been negligent of my social obligations as of late,” he confessed with a brief chuckle and followed her into the broad corridor. They crossed into the atrium of the estate and the sound of water softly echoed from a fall to his left. Tropicals flourished, some rising to the glass ceiling above and birds sang from green branches. Tenea looked at him over her shoulder.  
  
“I am certain when His Grace sees you, any imagined foible on your part will vanish like smoke, My Lord,” she assured and removed herself to the wall, gesturing to a set of tall double doors with a sweep of her arm, her chin bowed.  
  
Radu politely knocked on the ebony door and walked in when bade, shutting it quietly behind him. The Octagon room was always one of his favourites, one of the angled walls open to an unobstructed view of the ocean. It was flanked with cinnabar gossamer curtains that billowed with the warm breeze. The marble floor was covered here and there with handwoven rugs and the back of the room housed a seating area, reminiscent of an opium den of old– though on a more extravagant scale. Coloured glass lamps hung from oxidised chains in hues of crimson, topaz and aquamarine, each lit by candle.  
  
Crossing into the seating area, Radu met amber eyes that never failed to carve into his soul. Süleyman uncrossed his ankles and rose from the embroidered cushions and Radu’s gaze followed him as he approached. “Radu,” Süleyman murmured and let his eyes glide down the younger man’s frame, extending a hand. “It’s been too long since you’ve graced these halls, my boy.” The Ifrit clasped the proffered forearm with a meek simper and bowed his chin.  
  
“Please forgive my absence, Your Excellency,” he replied then released his hold, Süleyman’s fingers slipping from Radu’s arm.  
  
“You are always welcome in my home, childe. You know that,” the Duke said, his hand sweeping in invitation. Süleyman swiftly clapped, beckoning a servant with orders for libation and Radu sat at the low table with his former mentor, folding his legs indian-style.  
  
The room held many memories for Radu and they painted a faint blush on his high cheekbones. He recalled an argument they’d once had over by the ornate brazier, his subsequent sulking done on the balcony and indeed the way he and the Duke had made up on the very cushions they occupied. Radu softly cleared his throat and laid his hands in his lap, a small smile hovering while Süleyman moved aside a small book. “When I phoned, your servant said you were in the Imperial presence,” the younger man began and cocked his head. “Is all well?”  
  
Süleyman snorted, the corner of his mouth raising slightly. “Is it ever, Radu?” he retorted and nudged his wavy tail of hair from a shoulder. “More of Her Majesty’s delusions that there can be peace between Methuselah and Terran. It may be so in this Fool’s Paradise, but She has no cognisance of the Outer,” he murmured and sat back when the servant came with a rattan tray. She knelt and set small, thin cups into silvertone holders then poured steaming coffee into the two vessels. The tray was moved to the empty side of the octagonal floor table and she placed a plate of _Acıbadem kurabiyesi_ and two glasses of cold water between the two men and bowed her head. “Leave us alone,” he ordered and she, along with two other servants, made a quiet exit.  
  
“I take it you don’t agree with Her,” Radu continued the conversation and eyes flashed from across the table.  
  
“You damn well know I don’t, boy!” he growled then took a calming breath and licked his lips. “You know my feelings on this, Radu. I’ve made no secret of them to you,” he said then lifted his cup from the tiny saucer. “Anyone who thinks the Terran would allow themselves to be on equal footing with _monsters_ – to use their words– is mad.” Radu nodded and selected one of the almond bisquits. He broke it in half and laid one of them on his saucer.  
  
“It was a foolish question, Sir. I apologise,” he remarked and bit into the sweet. “And I know there are several in the Empire that share your concerns.” Süleyman took a sip of the strong brew then set the cup back onto its saucer.  
  
“That is correct. However, we are few and most, though discontent, will not rally themselves to rise against our Darling Mother,” he explained and the serious set of his jaw loosened as he watched the younger man dip the bisquit half into his coffee. The Duke rested an elbow on the table and propped his chin. “I see old habits die hard, _Safir_ ,” he intoned with a tender smile. Radu pinked and he stilled his hand a moment, a whispered chuckle escaping him.  
  
“Yes, they do compliment each other,” he said and bit off the moist portion. Süleyman’s face hung onto the indulgent grin a moment then fell as his elbow departed the table. He picked up his cup once more and blew across the surface of the beverage.  
  
“So, how have you been employing your time since we last met? Still trying to woo my Princess?” he asked of Astharoshe and Radu snickered around his bite.  
  
“No, Sir. The Duchess has very definite standards that a man of my caste does not meet,” he said then popped the rest of the bisquit in his mouth. Süleyman took one last sip of his beverage, leaving the dregs behind in the bottom of the cup. He slid its saucer over the rim then upended it to rest on the table. The Duke lifted a cookie from its plate and grinned at his companion.  
  
“I see. Yes, she does rather set the bar high,” he related and bit into the treat. Radu had been mulling over how to broach the subject of what he’d been doing and he sipped at his coffee to buy some time. There was nothing for it, he was just going to have to say it. Radu opened his mouth to speak when Süleyman resumed. “Do you have another lover, childe?” he asked with a subtle smirk. The Ifrit nearly choked on his drink but managed to swallow and lowered the cup.  
  
 _Dietrich_..”No, nothing like that,” he replied with a breathy chuckle and his brow quirked. What the hell was his mind playing at? The slut was as far removed from lover material as he himself was from the upper echelons of Imperial aristocrasy and it burned him that his brain would even go there, though he had to grudgingly admit the boy was good. “No. I’ve spent some time in the Outer,” Radu explained and Süleyman raised a brow as he chewed.  
  
“Without your dear tovarăş? I’m intrigued.” The older man wiped his fingers with a serviette then laid the cloth aside. “I never thought that boy would let you out of his sight for more than a day,” he prodded with a bright smile that faded when Radu further spoke.  
  
“He didn’t know, Sir,” Radu told him and halved the bisquit on his saucer, quickly eating it. “I told Ion I needed some time alone and he has respected that.” Süleyman tipped his chin up, his eyes lowering suspiciously.  
  
“What have you been doing, Baron Luxor?” he asked evenly and Radu peered at him through the fringe of blue-black hair then straightened, his jaw tensed.  
  
“I joined the Rosenkreuz Orden,” he admitted and defiantly held the Duke’s gaze. The amber that met him twitched then widened only slightly.  
  
“Rosen…The _Third Power_?!” Süleyman whispered but schooled his consternation and frowned at the younger man. “Are you out of your goddamned mind?!” he snapped and Radu continued to meet his glare. “Whatever compelled you to make such an asinine decision, Radu? Do you know what they do? There’s no honour among thieves– traitors to their race!”  
  
“No!” Radu shouted back and got to his feet. He paced a moment, arms tightly crossed at his chest, then faced his former mentor. “They believe in the superiourity of the Methuselah. Something you believe in, too!” A pointed glance was shot at Süleyman. “Or at least you _used_ to,” Radu added and the Duke quickly stood.  
  
“How dare you presume to tell me what I believe and what I do not, little one! I was fighting this fight long before those fools emerged.” Süleyman exhaled in a hiss and stepped nearer to the Ifrit. “Just tell me one thing…why would you do this?” Radu’s shoulders fell away from his ears and his armhold slackened.  
  
“Because they gave me opportunity. In the Orden, I matter,” he told him and the Duke’s brow went up again. “I have proved myself and I have been rewarded.” Radu paced away, his voice softly echoing in the room. “And I didn’t like the alternative of rotting away in this illusive Utopia, pretending I’m fine with being equal to cattle!” he growled as he neared the raven. In a blur, Süleyman’s hand sailed through the air, his palm cracking sharply against Radu’s cheek.  
  
“I gave you advantage that you would have never received! A place in the top form of the Academy and I connected you with the Fortuna clan because I saw potential in you.” Süleyman snorted derisively. “And this is how you repay me?” He held Radu’s chin in an iron grip. “Mark my words, Radu, they will kill you when your usefulness comes to an end.” Radu jerked away from the man’s hand and put his back to him, his arms hugging himself around the waist.  
  
“You don’t understand. The thought of having to ride on your coattails or someone else’s shamed me. It’s like you said: I had all those things because of you. I now move out of the shadow of the Empire and make my own mark in this fight.” He peered at Süleyman over his shoulder. “I do not regret my choice, Sir. I’d rather be effectual than blissfully docile.” Radu returned his gaze to the nearby sea, absently watching gulls circle above. Süleyman quietly sighed and after a moment, stood behind the younger Methuselah. A hand hesitated then gently laid on Radu’s shoulder and he rested his chin on the crown of deep sapphire hair.  
  
Radu was right, Süleyman relented as listened to the sound of the waves crashing to shore. Those that shared the Duke’s criticism were easily numbered and there was little chance to change the popular viewpoint with so few to count on. He’d tarried too long, waiting to see if the small faction would find their elusive backbone and act– himself included. Another sigh puffed Radu’s sweet-smelling hair and Süleyman’s hand softly squeezed his shoulder. “You’re right,” he finally voiced and watched Radu walk onto the balcony, a hand fitting into the pocket of his jacket to draw out a cigarette. The soft snick of a lighter brought the subtle scent of tobacco into the area immediate and Süleyman let the boy have his moment, returning to the cushions.  
  
Radu deeply pulled on his cigarette, held the smoke for a few beats then let it slowly waft from his lips. He hadn’t expected anything less than the reaction he’d got from Süleyman. His cheek was still warm from the hit but he ignored it and put hands to the stone balustrade. Süleyman admitted he was right and Radu was well aware that it took a bit for the man to voice it, as he was a couple of centuries younger than the Duke. Radu snorted and pressed the stick into a tiled tray then walked back into the room.  
  
  
Süleyman sat at the very back of the room and the soft scent of charcoal rode on the air. As Radu approached, the older Methuselah opened a rosewood box and looked up at him. “I thought you may prefer this to your tobacco,” he remarked then lifted the screen on the elabourate hookah with its curved tool. Radu went to his knees and sat on a hip as he watched the man separate a small leaf-wrapped parcel from its neighbours then set it on the concave briquette. “What are their conditions?” Süleyman asked as he replaced the screen. He held out one of the thin hoses to Radu and when he’d taken it, Süleyman lounged back into a collection of silk and velvet pillows. He draped his left arm over his middle then met the boy’s dark blue eyes.  
  
“Conditions were never mentioned, Excellency,” Radu informed him and took the implement, which drew a terse chuckle from the Duke.  
  
“Nothing is for nothing, Radu,” Süleyman retorted and picked up the second hose. He adjusted the slender wooden mouthpiece and gently drew on it. The topaz and gold inlaid pipe melted into opaque swirls of colour as it filled with smoke. He slightly tipped his chin up to exhale and cocked a brow at the Baron.  
  
Radu blindly fiddled with the hose then looked down at it as if searching for answers. “I can arrange a meeting, if you’d like,” he told the raven and let the mouthpiece glide across his own lips. Süleyman’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly and for a moment, he attended the item as it traversed what he knew from memory to be very sweet lips indeed.  
  
“Thank you, no. But I have to ask; what’s in it for the Rosenkreuz Orden?” Radu drew on the hose and when the smoke entered his mouth and lungs, he paused– the question all but forgotten as he pondered the substance. Blue lotus. Madly expensive, addicting as hell and made him rut like he was on fire. Radu let the smoke leave him and he licked his lips.  
  
“The Methuselah supremacy.” Radu put his free hand to the cushion, further resting on his hip. “Peace between the races is impossible. Terran history exposes them for what they are: small-minded warmongers that can’t even enjoy peace among their own kind.” Süleyman smirked around his mouthpiece then drew again, letting the bitter-sweet smoke curl down his throat.  
  
“Well said,” he stated deeply and exhaled. The determined flash of the boy’s eyes began to fade with each inhale from the hookah and Süleyman pondered his erstwhile charge. He had grown even more beautiful over the years and certainly more headstrong than when he was a fledgling. He supposed he could at least be proud the young man wasn’t as empty-headed as the Earl of Memphis appeared to be. Of course, Süleyman mused, much of that had to do with his being overtly mollycoddled by his grandmother.  
  
Radu observed his elder leisurely pulling on the mouthpiece and he shifted his gaze to the ornate pipe. He watched the smoke billow and undulate within the coloured glass. He still had orders to carry out and Süleyman hadn’t exactly said yes yet to their offer. When the Duke exhaled and put eyes on him, Radu eased down to lay on his side, head propped by his hand and a soft smile accompanying his darkened gaze. Süleyman’s own thoughts dissipated on a veil of smoke and he shook his head, lowering the slender hose. “So damned ambitious,” he murmured and the younger Methuselah idly drew his lower lip between his teeth then freed it to bear the slightest turn upward.  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with ambition… _babacığım_ ,” Radu purred. He took a long draw off the hookah then let the smoke sensually whorl from his parted lips. Süleyman’s breathy and brief chuckle shifted the diaphanous veil between them.  
  
“It’s been a long time since you called me that, childe,” he whispered and Radu adopted the hushed tones, feeding into the alluring haze that hung in the air.  
  
“Does it please you?” he quietly asked. The hose tip lightly pushed against his lower lip before departing and Süleyman hung his own implement on the hookah, his gaze fixed on the other.  
  
“Immensely,” he replied and when his fingertips left it, he beckoned Radu. “Come here.”  
  
Radu shifted on the cushions, the hookah hose abandoned, and fluidly swung a leg over to straddle the elder’s lap. He eased down onto strong thighs and Süleyman’s hands raised to slowly undo the buttons of Radu’s jacket. Amber eyes hooded then rolled beneath black lashes to capture the Ifrit’s shadowed glance. “Make no mistake, my boy, I am well-versed in this game you’re playing,” he breathed then slid the garment from Radu’s shoulders and let it drop from a hand.  
  
“Game, Excellency?” Radu echoed as he toyed with the loose ties of the Duke’s shirt. A finger hooked one of the linen strings, it curling around the digit before falling back into place. Süleyman wore an indulgent half-grin when Radu’s finger further probed between the laces to touch tanned skin.  
  
“Yes, little one,” he affirmed then captured Radu’s hand and brought it to his lips. “And it’s clear that your new masters expect you to offer your body to me to attain my consent.” Süleyman kissed each fingertip in his light hold, eyes conveying a knowing flicker of amusement when the younger Methuselah’s gaze fell. It quickly rose again and Radu took in a silent breath.  
  
“Sir, I–“ he began but was silenced by a finger to his lips.  
  
“Do not soil these lips with lies, Safir. They are far too sweet to tarnish,” Süleyman whispered, his finger gliding along the soft flesh before departing. The tip of Radu’s tongue followed it, though did not catch the retreating digit. He should have known Süleyman would see right through him and he was ashamed that it was obvious to the Duke he, Radu, was banking on the man’s libido to artfully eclipse any guile on his part. But he had not been moved and Süleyman’s hands were splayed along his bent thighs, softly working with and against the velvet grain of Radu’s trousers. Süleyman waited until eyes the colour of the sea outside his estate raised to hold his own. “Penny for your thoughts, Radu,” he posed on a breath and a small smile first curled the corner of the Ifrit’s mouth then spread to lift the other before parting as he leaned closer to Süleyman. The game could still be salvaged.  
  
“Hmm?” Radu darkly hummed, repositioning himself over the older Methuselah and a quiet inhale rushed into Süleyman’s lungs as Radu’s movement brought his backside along the Duke’s crotch. Radu cocked his head and he laid hands on Süleyman’s chest, his lips closing in on the other set. “My mind’s eye is surmising how you will look seated on the Imperial throne, rather than on your knees before it– _Your Majesty_ ,” he purred and Süleyman carded fingers through Radu’s hair, his hands stilling within the thick tresses to gently hold his head. A few moments that were populated with the sounds of breathing passed between them and Süleyman’s thumbs followed the high arches of Radu’s cheekbones.  
  
“And where will you be, childe? Beside it or before it?” he murmured then claimed Radu’s lips.  
  
  


__~~~~******~~~~_ _

  
  
  
Dietrich tossed his Orden jacket onto the seat between he and Isaak as he entered the limo and when Guderian shut the door, the boy scooted to the corner of the seat, tightly crossing his legs and arms. Soft violin quietly sang from the speakers and Isaak lit a cigarillo as he quickly perused a memo. Dietrich uncrossed his legs and one bobbed softly with irritation. Caramel eyes rolled over to the man seated at his left and he continued to stare at his mentor until Isaak’s attention lifted from the page.  
“Something on your mind, pet?” he asked, feigning interest as he folded then pocketed the paper. Dietrich tipped his chin up, his lips set into a thin line that skewed with the movement of his jaw.  
  
“Did you kill him?”  
  
“Hmm?” Isaak purred and tapped ash from his smoke into the door’s tray.  
  
“Radu. You know, the hot vampire that fucked me into a wall,” Dietrich hissed with a keen smirk and Isaak fit the black stick between his teeth as he leaned forward to pour himself a snifter of brandy.  
  
“There are soft drinks or juice in the compartment next to you,” he offered and Dietrich’s eyes narrowed at him, the smirk still present.  
  
“So, it __does_ _ bother you. How nice,” the boy drawled and watched Isaak sit back into the leather bench. He gently swirled the alcohol in the glass then brought it to his nose before taking a sip. Isaak crossed his legs, resting the foot of the snifter on his thigh and took a draw from his cigarillo. Grey eyes rolled over to the teen and lips parted to exhale the bluish smoke.  
  
“You flatter yourself, childe,” he replied then knocked the cherry off his cigarillo in favour of his drink and passed a slight grin over to his protégé. Dietrich licked the corner of his lip and fished into the pocket of his jacket for a foil-wrapped chocolat. Each corner of the square was peeled back to reveal the deep, near-black confection and he finally popped it in his mouth.  
  
“The thing I can’t figure out is how come it bothers you more than the other ones,” he murmured around the candy, his fingers idly folding the foil. Dietrich sucked on the chocolat square for a moment, shifted it over to the side of his mouth then bit into it. “Funny that,” he added and Isaak softly snorted into the bowl of his glass.  
  
“ ‘The worst deluded are the self-deluded– Bovee’,” he quoted and set the empty snifter into a nearby holder and adjusted the cuff of his jacket. Gloved fingers picked a tiny ball of fuzz from the sleeve and Dietrich scoffed. It was clear he wasn’t getting anywhere near the man’s skin and he crumpled the small triangle he’d folded then threw it at his mentor. Isaak’s eyes again lifted to him and the redhead briefly scrunched his nose at the man.  
  
“Whatever,” Dietrich countered and watched the foil ball roll to the floor. “I get it now,” he said after a moment, the smirk returning to dance on his soft lips. “You weren’t __permitted_ _ to kill him, is that it?!” he deduced and Isaak arched a brow at him.  
  
“Do pick up your trash, Liebling,” he instructed with an indifferent moue that he kept until an annoyed blast issued from Dietrich. The teen then bent to retrieve the wrapper and sat back, carefully opening it. He smoothed the foil square on his thigh, his brows lightly furrowed. Isaak laid an arm over the back of the seat, his fingertips extending to feather along the younger man’s pale cheek. When Dietrich turned his head, Isaak caressed a strand of cinnamon hair behind the boy’s ear. “As you are aware, Baron Luxor’s transgression exceeded the limited bounds of a few heated moments spent between your unarguably welcoming thighs, mein Schatz,” he said at last and Dietrich rolled his eyes, focusing now on Guderian’s silhouetted head on the other side of the dividing glass.  
  
Gloved fingers slid beneath Dietrich’s chin to direct the teen’s attention back to the mage and Isaak’s eyes darkened behind black lashes. “And yes, you are correct. It is by Mein Herr’s edict that your plaything still draws breath,” he stated and caramel eyes lightened a fraction as he further moved his cheek to fit into Isaak’s palm.  
  
“So, where is he?” he quietly asked and the raven’s thumb smoothed over soft skin.  
  
“On assignment in the Empire,” he replied evenly and Dietrich playfully captured the tip of Isaak’s glove between his teeth then released it, his hot breath veiling the covered digit.  
  
“Oh? And you were going to inform me when?” he questioned boldly and Isaak patronisingly tapped the boy’s lips.  
  
“I was unaware my orders were contingent upon your approval, Herr von Lohengrin,” the mage purred and Dietrich moved away from his touch with a frown. He crossed his arms again and fit Isaak with a petulant glare.  
  
“I _am_ Radu’s superiour, Isaak,” he needlessly stated and the older man loosed a clipped chuckle as he relit his cigarillo. “What’s he doing in the Empire?” Isaak let his lungfull curl sensually from parted lips and he licked the lower set before answering the indignant youth.  
  
“Our noble Baron has been charged with contacting one Duke of Tigris, my Lord,” he remarked sarcastically and rolled the tip of his smoke within the ashtray. Dietrich quickly corrected his open mouth and he could feel the limo roll to a stop. A few moments later, the engine purred once more and gas lamps dimly lit the interiour of the car as they passed by.  
  
“What for?!” he blurted, his left knee bobbing once again with his irritation. Isaak stilled the movement with a hand and let fingertips follow the teen’s outer thigh as it departed. Dietrich’s mind raced, painting pictures of the Ifrit in his Empire garb– at home among his kind and likely whoring around with his god-like former mentor. It wasn’t fair! “Don’t you think he should be watched, Isaak?! You sent him home, for fuck’s sake, and,” Dietrich exhaled through his nose. “Brilliant,” he deadpanned and Isaak lifted a brow.  
  
“ ‘…But no metal can-- No, not the hangman's axe--bear half the keenness of thy sharp envy– _Merchant of Venice_ ’,” the magician casually retorted as he moved the cigarillo from his lips.  
  
“What?!” Dietrich barked then loosed a flippant snicker. “You think I’m jealous? Radu was just a fuck,” he confidently proclaimed and popped another chocolat in his mouth. A whorl of smoke haloed Isaak’s head and he smiled to himself as an ash fell into the metal door tray.  
  
“Green is not your colour, Geliebter,” he commented and drew on the silvertone chain that draped from a coat button. He pulled out a pocketwatch and glanced at its face. “How do you suppose the dear boy likes it? From behind, or do you imagine he prefers to _ride_ his Arabian?” he chuckled and pocketed the watch. Isaak could feel the anger radiate next to him and eyes slid over to the teen as a sharp smile fitted on the raven. “Which is the greater affront? Radu warming Süleyman’s bed?” Isaak’s gaze hooded. “Or the reality that you aren’t the one with his ankles likely in __this_ _ vicinity?” he prodded with a light caress to Dietrich’s exposed ear.  
  
“Get off!” Dietrich groused, jerking his head away from Isaak’s touch which only further amused him. He took another draw from his cigarillo, a soft chuckle vibrating his throat.  
  
“My money’s on the latter,” Isaak remarked plainly and lifted Dietrich’s coat from the bench between them. “Get your suit on, boy,” he ordered and Dietrich grumbled to himself as he snatched the garment from the mage’s hand. A pair of gloves was then forwarded and they, too, were unceremoniously plucked from Isaak’s loose grip. If anything, the teen’s behaviour was endearing, if not to say completely expected. Isaak thought to up the ante. “The last thing I’d want to do is overwork you, Dietrich Engel.” Isaak paused long enough to extinguish his cigarillo and the last lungfull exited as he watched the teen button his jacket. “Besides, I’m not entirely sure Tigris is as fond of arrogant little strumpets as his former charge appears to be.” Dietrich quickly tugged on his gloves and when Isaak ran the back of a finger down his cheek, he moved himself further into the corner of the seat, arms once more tightly crossed at his chest.  
  
“Yes, Meister,” Dietrich murmured, just to get the man to shut up, his gaze focused outside his window. In the distance, he could see Orden Headquarters rising over the hill and he silently thanked whoever looked over him these days that they were almost there. Isaak’s fingertips smoothed over Dietrich’s hair and there was nowhere else for the boy to go, unless the door decided to give way.  
  
“Give us a kiss, Dearest,” Isaak purred and if he was ever given to letting out a deep, resounding laugh, it would have been then. The boy was just too incredibly precious! Caramel eyes pierced from beneath wayward bangs and he quickly leaned on a hand to stab a very brief peck on Isaak’s cheek. Dietrich returned to his place and Isaak snorted. “Control yourself, Dietrich,” he sardonically drawled as the limo came to a stop.  
  
Isaak exited the car after his protégé and nodded at Guderian, who then shut the door and followed a pace behind the pair. The blonde averted his eyes as Isaak’s hand stole down Dietrich’s back to smooth over the teen’s backside before it was grabbed then flung back to the mage’s side. “Don’t touch me,” Dietrich hissed as they climbed the stairs of the mansion and headed through the door. That same hand then fitted firmly at the back of Dietrich’s neck to shepherd the boy into the foyer.  
  
“I think that’s a first. Don’t you agree, Guderian?” the raven remarked with a glance behind him and a dark smirk. The werewolf kept his professional air as he, too, stepped into the foyer.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” he evenly replied and Isaak tipped his chin so only Dietrich could hear him.  
  
“The ladies’ room is just over the way, Madam, should you need to __adjust_ _ anything,” he quipped and Dietrich wormed out of his hold just in time. It wouldn’t do for the rest of the company to see Isaak leading him into the room like he was four.  
  
“Fuck off,” Dietrich whispered out of the side of his mouth and Isaak gripped the teen’s hand as he engaged one of the officers in brief conversation. The mage selected a drink from a passing tray and his grip tightened, the softest of groans brushing past him. Isaak turned a smile to Dietrich, the warmth of which never reached his steel-grey gaze.  
  
“You may avail yourself of the pastries,” he said and released the boy’s hand. Dietrich met Isaak’s eyes defiantly then stepped away without comment and once he’d reached the bedecked table, he angrily made short work of an éclair. He picked up another one and his attention fell to the square plate of _kipfel_. He continued to stare at the rolled sweets as he chewed, blindly taking a small napkin from the corner of the table. Dietrich had seen the pastries on Radu’s plate a million times and the gears began spinning in his head. Another bite and eyes rolled over to where Isaak stood, sipping on his champagne like a pretentious twat while schmoosing with Ice Bitch. Dietrich finished the éclair then, with a devious simper, snagged a kipfel and obediently went to Isaak’s side as the bell to call order sounded, a vicious bite taken from the pastry.


	4. Psychosocial Moratorium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Radu discovers there is more than one part to play on the board, but will he be the Empire's Knight or the Orden's Pawn?
> 
> **Final Chapter**

The Barvon estate was meagre by all standards. Their lands had been sold over the years to settle debts or shore contracts; which had left the patriarch just enough to retain his seat in the Council. However, by the time Radu reached adulthood and of age to claim his legacy, it had dwindled to a few acres. It had never truly been home to him, but there was still enough clout left to the Barvon name that it served its purpose.  
  
As he walked into the dimly lit foyer, Radu looked around. Each gas sconce illuminated the cherry wood wall it sentried, lending the open area a warm and muted glow. The few servants he had had clearly been, the furniture in the adjacent parlour free of their dust covers and the air was perfumed with exotic spice. Radu had spent three days with the Duke of Tigris and though Süleyman had agreed to the Orden’s backing on the first night, he’d insisted the younger Methuselah be his guest. Three nights that harkened back to simpler times when he would have given his freedom to hang on His Excellency’s arm– like any other bauble– to be shown off and coveted.  
  
He had phoned the Fortuna estate on the first night back in the Empire and Ion was overjoyed that his Tovarăş sounded well and wanted to visit. Ion had alluded to an audience he’d had with the Empress and his excited banter had pulled a wistful grin on the Ifrit’s face. With a subtle turn of lips, Radu took off his hat, recalling what had happened next.  
  
  
 _Radu had blindly hung up the phone then, letting the receiver roll from his fingers onto the cradle as he had ran the flat of his tongue over one of Süleyman’s nipples. The man regarded him with a fond simper, one arm fitted between his head and the pillow. His free hand had caressed Radu’s cheek and traced a line to his shoulder. “At least give a man a moment to catch his breath, childe,” Süleyman had murmured without rancor and Radu had slid up to quietly gaze at his former mentor with a warm grin. Comfortable silence had passed between them for a few moments before Süleyman had snorted to himself and captured Radu’s lips, then completed the move by rolling the boy onto his back._  
  
  
Radu slid his hat onto the seat of a chair and draped his jacket over the back of it, the pleasant memory sending arousing tingles through his veins. Radu bit his lower lip– the damn drug was still in his system! Süleyman didn’t care to ask why Radu was so _spirited_ and Radu didn’t care to explain, simply accepting the proffered substance that made him forget about the Rosenkreuz Orden and their disgustingly ribald Marionettenspieler; if only for a few days. He hoped a cleansing tea and a hot bath would sort him out before he had to be at the Fortuna estate. Gods! It sure would look nice walking into Mirka’s house with a raging hard-on and Ion talking about _how much he missed him_.  
  
Flipping on a lamp in his study, Radu then lit a cigarette and sat at the desk. He pushed a button beneath the false centre drawer, bringing a holographic console to life just above the wood surface. A single finger touched various icons within the field and Radu searched for a closed channel within the network. Once under a secured frequency, he requested voice command and the system complied, switching the blue-hued interface accordingly.  
  
  
A soft chime sounded in the close air of Isaak’s limo and he put out his cigarillo then pulled a thin device from his jacket’s inner pocket. Dietrich’s attention abandoned the rolling cityscape outside the window in favour of eavesdropping. Isaak tapped a few numbers on the touchscreen and signed on to the secure channel.  
  
“Good afternoon, Herr,” Radu greeted and Isaak watched him tamp out his cigarette. As soon as the sound of Radu’s voice breathed from the device, Dietrich laid his head back into the leather seat and shut his eyes, concentrating on the deep tenor.  
  
“Status?” Isaak said and shot Dietrich a withering glance.  
  
“Confirmed,” Radu replied, preferring the use of code due to the mage’s mobile connection. Isaak was pleased the boy was at least intelligent enough to censor himself. The news was gratifying and he simply nodded at the grainy image but the way the Methuselah’s brow quirked, Isaak could tell Radu wanted to say something else.  
  
“Additional?” Isaak asked and Dietrich arched a brow .  
  
“Affirmative. Will update A-sap. Out.” Radu severed the connection and Isaak pocketed the device then re-lit his smoke. Dietrich’s head lolled to the side, a caramel gaze falling on his mentor.  
  
“I told you he should be watched,” the teen drawled and Isaak caught his eyes.  
  
“No, Dearest. I imagine he’s hit on something that could put us at an advantage.” Isaak took a long draw off the black stick and tipped his chin up to exhale. “Most interesting,” he muttered and Dietrich snorted.  
  
“Says you,” he remarked then fitted a hand into a white wax bag and drew out a small stick of rock candy. The boy slipped it between his lips and Isaak spared him a glance, choosing to watch Dietrich suck on the confection rather than explain his suppositions. Isaak’s quiet chuckle broke the silence as he shook his head.  
  
“It’s a wonder you have a healthy tooth in your head, boy,” he observed and Dietrich pulled on the thin wooden stick, removing the candy. Lips tinted soft pink subtly raised but remained silent. Isaak continued: “No pithy remark today? I must be losing my touch.”  
  
Dietrich sucked on the candy, his eyes again returning to the upholstered roof of the limo and Isaak ashed his smoke. “Just as well,” he blithely stated then drew on the cigarillo. “Rarely do I get the chance to enjoy a moment of simple quiet.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Dietrich emptied his once more.  
  
“You’re very trusting of a noob, Isaak,” he accused then licked his lips of the slight raspberry flavour the confection imparted. The raven’s eyes rolled to their corners as he looked askance at his protégé.  
  
“Trust?” Isaak chuckled coolly. “Not in the slightest, Geliebter. However, one could say that in Baron Luxor’s case, ‘The absence of alternatives clears the mind marvelously’.”  
  
  
  
Impeccably dressed, Radu arrived at the Fortuna estate and he was shown through the door by one of Mirka’s butlers; Stanwyk. The older human’s gaze had always lingered upon him longer than was proper and Radu did his best to ignore the glance that could never decide if it wanted to be lukewarm or lecherous. He spared the Terran a haughty grin and handed him his hat. “His Excellency is in the parlour, my Lord,” Stanwyk informed him then put his chin in the air and escorted the Methuselah across the large foyer and into the plush and inviting room.  
  
Ion had been eating a meringue and he licked his fingers as the butler announced Radu, immediately getting to his feet with a broad smile. “Radu!” he cried and, throwing all decorum aside, quickly crossed the floor to crush his friend within small arms. The servant exited, shutting the door behind him, and Radu embrased the arms that had snaked around his waist.  
  
“Hello, Tovarăş,” he returned with a smile and Ion took a step back to look at him.  
  
“Hmm, you look like you’ve lost weight,” Ion observed then beckoned Radu to join him on the sofa. When the Ifrit sat, Ion forwarded the china plate of meringues, winking one titian eye. “They’re lemon curd ones,” he informed the other male and Radu nodded then selected a smaller treat. It was best not to argue, in his opinion.  
  
A fire crackled beneath a large marble mantle and the heavy earthtone draperies had been drawn open to enjoy the view of fireflies in the garden as the sun set. Radu took a bite of the meringue then leaned forward long enough to snag the spare linen napkin. Ion watched him take a bite before doing the same with his. “We’ve missed you, Radu,” Ion said around his mouthful then dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “I’m sure Our Lady Grandmother is tired of hearing Us prattle on.”  
  
“I didn’t think I’d been gone that long, Ion,” Radu chuckled then finished the snack and Ion folded his legs indian-style, facing his friend.  
  
“Seemed like forever,” he remarked and popped the rest of the meringue in his mouth. “We trust it was time well spent, Tovarăş.” Radu nodded, topping off Ion’s glass then availed himself of the extra flute placed there for his use.  
  
“Champagne and meringues, Your Excellency?” Radu commented, grinning as he sat back into the velvet cushions. He crossed his legs and watched the bubbles float to the surface of the beverage before meeting Ion’s eyes. “Your tastes always did run to the extravagant,” he quipped and Ion claimed his own glass. The Earl favoured a pensive countenance for a moment then let it part for a smile.  
  
“We like the bubbles,” he stated with a laugh and took a sip. Radu snickered when Ion scrunched up his nose but his mirth was short-lived and he balanced the foot of the glass on his crossed thigh.  
  
“When we spoke on the phone, you said you’d had an audience with Her Majesty,” he led in, circling the rim of his glass with the pad of a finger. Ion nodded and set his glass onto the lowtable.  
  
“Yes,” Ion began and he favoured the corner of the sofa, one bent leg propped along the cushion and the other foot on the floor as he sat upright. “We were summoned alone to the Imperial presence Monday afternoon and Her Majesty appointed Us envoy to the Vatican.” Radu’s brows shot up and he was relieved he hadn’t a mouthful of champagne, otherwise Ion would have been wearing it.  
  
“Envoy? To the Vatican?” he aped, though kept further emotion from his face. “Why is that?” Ion traced the design pattern in the cushion back and peered at Radu through his mess of bangs.  
  
“The Tsara Methuselate had been contacted via one of their Cardinals to open channels. They wish to parley peace, Radu,” Ion leveled and the Ifrit nervously swallowed though showed his companion a thin smile.  
  
“Surely it’s a trap?” he opined and slid a hand into his ornate jacket, fingering the cigarette tin inside. “Does our Empress not wish to temper this request with a modicum of caution?” Radu asked and Ion sighed.  
  
“Thou knowest Our feelings on the matter, Radu, but an Imperial mandate is absolute. Our opinions are irrelevant.” Radu pulled the tin from his pocket and turned the square over between his fingers. It idly spun as he pondered what that meant, not only for the Empire, but for the few that had seen this coming. He was sure Süleyman would be more than interested to learn of Augusta’s edict– he just hoped both he and the Duke were prepared for the inevitable fallout. Then again, perhaps he already knew?  
  
“Will you be going to Roma, then?” Radu asked and stilled the object in his hand. Ion spared it a quick glance then rose from the seat and walked toward one of the glass doors, knowing his friend wished to smoke. Radu shortly followed and when he reached the wide patio, a stick fit between his lips and was lit, the nicotine falsely calming his nerves.  
  
“No. Her Majesty and this Cardinal have agreed on a neutrality: the Free City of Carthage,” Ion answered and Radu gazed out at the bay. Ships were returning to port and to the far left, the heart of Byzantium began to glow with gas lamps heralding the rapidly approaching nightfall. He turned the information over in his head as he smoked and Ion sat on a stone balustrade, his hanging feet softly swaying. “Radu?” he began with a short smile. “Protocol dictates there must be two envoys– a principal and a vice– and We would like you to accompany Us.”  
  
Radu let the smoke ribbon from his lips and pulled his attention away from the view to meet Ion’s eyes. He put a hand on the other male’s shoulder and offered a warm grin. “I would be happy to.” Dark blue eyes searched those of his friend. “Are you worried, Ion?” he asked and the blonde scoffed.  
  
“We are not worried!” he exclaimed then loosed a whispered sigh. “But you’ve read the papers, seen the reports. The Outer is untamed and, well… We are uneasy with meeting this woman.” Radu gently squeezed Ion’s shoulder then dropped his hand. He took a pace to the side and finished his cigarette.  
  
“The Empress could have chosen anyone, Ion,” Radu stated and pressed the stick into a nearby ashtray. “But She chose you and that alone should cheer you in your task. Besides,” He lifted himself to sit on the balustrade next to the Earl and playfully nudged him. “I’ll be at your side.” Ion dramatically lunged to the side as Radu elbowed him and softly chuckled then sat upright and looked askance at the Ifrit.  
  
“We will carry out the order, of course,” he affirmed then tilted his head heavenward, sighting several constellations and his hands curled around the lip of the ledge. “And We’re glad you will be with Us, Tovarăş.”  


 

 

~~~~****~~~~

  
  
  
The flickering image of Isaak– sans Orden jacket and gloves– hovered above Radu’s desk, tie hanging loose and the first two buttons of his dress shirt open. A red circle turned and spun at the bottom left of the holoscreen, indicating the closed frequency. He watched the mage drop his hands for a moment and the red circle bloomed with a black centre that spun in the opposite direction, effectively tucking them into a dark corner of the network. “Now you may speak freely, Barvon,” Isaak allowed then sat back in his desk chair, a short glass of an amber liquid raising to his lips.  
  
Radu crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap. “Sir, I have been informed that the Tsara Methuselate and the Vatican have agreed to come together to discuss peace,” he relayed and Isaak slowly lowered his highball glass, a brow elegantly arched.  
  
“Is that so?” he replied and his right hand disappeared from the screen. Isaak let his glass hang, carefully held between thumb and middle finger as he pondered Radu’s information. “Go on,” he drawled and Radu nodded before continuing.  
  
“They are to meet at Carthage in three day’s time.” Radu caught a subtle tic beneath the mage’s left eye and he lit a cigarette, the red from the flame momentarily cutting through the soft blue light of his console.  
  
“Very good,” Isaak acknowledged and swirled the liquor in his glass, the soft sound of ice clicking against the interiour barely conveyed over the network connection. His eyes lowered for a fraction of a second then lifted to watch smoke curl from the Ifrit’s lips.  
  
“There’s more, Herr,” Radu revealed and he could have sworn he heard a yelp but ashed his smoke– probably that fool Lohengrin; running around the magician’s office like the fucktard he was! Radu subvocally snorted then cleared his throat. “The Earl of Memphis has been appointed as Augusta’s envoy.” He paused and took another draw from the tobacco. “And by course, Ion has chosen me to be his second.” Muffled static that sounded a lot like a quickly-silenced twitter tickled the small audio bar at the bottom of Radu’s holoscreen. The image’s lips thinned before parting to speak.  
  
“Excellent, Barvon,” Isaak darkly praised and finished off his drink then set the glass to the side. Storm grey held Radu’s gaze for a moment and the Ifrit felt a jolt go through his body. “We will be in contact with further orders,” Isaak stated, adding with the barest of smiles before closing the connection: “Don’t forget your _tagelmust_ , boy.”  
  
As soon as the holoscreen faded, Isaak tipped his head back, a quiet groan escaping his throat as he emptied into Dietrich’s hot mouth. His hand loosened its hold in cinnamon hair and Dietrich let Isaak’s cock slip from his skilled lips, liquid eyes heavy with sated pleasure as he leered up at the mage. Isaak tossed a handkerchief down to him. “I take it we’ve gotten over our little tantrum,” he remarked and Dietrich caught the cloth, unfolding it to wipe his own spend from thin fingers then drew the handkerchief along his length.  
  
“Yes, Meister,” Dietrich droned and Isaak rolled his chair back as he fastened his trousers.  
  
“Oh good, we’re friends again,” he muttered blandly and helped the young man to his feet. Dietrich lobbed the cloth into a nearby dustbin then buttoned and zipped himself. The pad of Isaak’s thumb wiped a drop of come from the corner of the boy’s lip and fed it to him with a smirk. Dietrich quickly sucked the digit and Isaak let fingertips glide over his protégé’s cheek then fell away. “Go get yourself cleaned up, Dietrich.” Isaak lit a cigarillo as Dietrich headed towards the ensuite. “Quickly, Liebling,” he urged and stood at the corner of his desk, the fingers of his left hand idly drumming the surface as he reflected on the turn of events Radu’s proclamation disclosed.  


 

 

~~~~***~~~~

  
  
  
“Well, that’s torn it,” Melchior muttered from his seat at the conference table. He spun a goldtone pen between his thumbs and peered at the empty place opposite him. “If they’ve scheduled a peace summit of sorts it rather throws a wrench into our works, doesn’t it.” At his brother’s left, Balthasar sighed.  
  
“What can be done about it? We’ve only got Radu in the field and I’m not too keen on entrusting a mission of this magnitude to a greenhorn,” he stated, his gaze switching to the mage. “You said he’s to accompany the Empire envoy, Isaak.” Balthasar clasped his hands on the table and leaned in. “Can we trust a defector to– how shall I put this– represent the Orden’s interests? Particularly when it involves one of his own?”  
  
Isaak casually exhaled, the smoke haloing his dark hair. He tapped a length of ash from the stick and offered a closed smile. “Which is precisely why he will remain assigned to this mission, Balthasar,” he affirmed then took another draw from his cigarillo. “As the Imperial Vice Envoy, Radu will be above suspicion– at least in appearance.” Isaak effected a sweeping glance of the officers and caught an understated nod from the head of the table before continuing. “All we need to agree upon is how we can use this _meeting of the minds_ , as it were, to our ultimate advantage.”  
  
Dietrich looked up from his copy of the quickly thrown together meeting agenda, the white margins party to various doodles. “I think we…”  
  
“Can we really depend on him to eliminate the Vatican emissary, Isaak?” Helga interrupted, drawing Dietrich’s brow into a soft furrow. “It is one thing to exterminate a few Terrans, but I’m sure the Holy See isn’t going to send their man alone.” Helga captured her wineglass and brought it to her dark red lips. “The boy will have to deal with either the Inquisition or the AX; neither of which tend to take too kindly to Methuselah, I can assure you.” She then sipped away the smug grin that rode on her lips.  
  
Dietrich scoffed. “And I…”  
  
“Noted, Madam,” Isaak rode over his protégé and rolled the tip of his cigarillo in the ashtray. “Though we do have a point of interest that perhaps may serve to sow a tidy row of discord,” he suggested and let a ribbon of smoke curl around his quiet smirk. “There is more than one apostate on this chess board, meine lieben Kollegen.”  
  
The company looked around at each other, light chatter passing between them as Isaak extinguished his cigarillo. At the head of the table, Cain softly called for order and all eyes shifted to the blonde. Elbows resting on the chair arms, he folded his hands at chest level with a cool smile. “Professor Pietro Borromini, late of the Vatican,” Cain stated and glanced at the mage. “One of your recent acquisitions, if We’re not mistaken?” Isaak nodded and addressed the room.  
  
“Quite correct, Mein Herr,” the mage replied. “A computer engineer with a chip on his shoulder and a tidy cache of purloined data; no pun intended, of course.” Dietrich smiled into his glass of ice water then lowered it to the table.  
  
“Yeah, a real son of a– “  
  
“What difference does _that_ make, Panzermagier?” Melchior interjected, his brow quirked to match the upward twitch of his lip. From her seat, Helga’s eyes hooded in amusement– the less that impertinent child was allowed to speak the better! She caught Dietrich’s indignant glare and silently tossed him a patronising simper then focused on the man to his left.  
  
“Are you suggesting we should send that fool in to aid Radu?” Helga scoffed. “Isaak, I cannot go along with this.” The magician poured himself a glass of wine then sat back and crossed his legs.  
  
“Borromini is in Carthage,” he informed them and nonchalantly raised the delicate glass to his lips.  
  
“So what!” Helga blurted with a slight lilt. “What are you going to do, have an ex-Vatican drone and the Ifrit take care of the Earl _and_ the Emissary?” She scoffed and threw a dismissive wave in Isaak’s direction. “Really, love.”  
  
Cain quietly sighed at the ceiling, ennui veiling his face with just a modicum of irritation. He gestured toward the raven. “Oh, get on with it!” he breathed and picked up his libation. Isaak lowered his chin then met Helga’s gaze.  
  
“I have no intention of doing so, Madam. Borromini is there on other business. However.” Grey eyes rolled to his right and Isaak had a veiled grin for his protégé. “Dietrich?” he purred and the teen folded his hands across his lap. He let a moment pass in silence, basking in the attention he was finally given. Dietrich returned the nasty smile Helga had lent him earlier then spoke.  
  
“Using some of the data he stole after being canned, Borromini has located The Tomb of the Queen,” he stated and the room quieted while the information was processed.  
  
 _”What the hell is_ that _?!”  
  
“It really exists?”_  
  
“It’s a weapon,” Guderian muttered from his seat then returned to jotting down the meeting minutes. Dietrich cleared his throat.  
  
“Lost technology that dates to the Dark Ages,” he clarified and rested an elbow on the chair arm, cupping his chin. “Otherwise known as _The Ibelis_.” A variety of sounds filled the conference room and Cain shushed them on a drawn-out breath. His retractable pen clicked a few times in the silence and he slowly turned eyes to his second in command.  
  
Isaak nodded then briefed the company with a dark smile and three words: “Our insurance policy.”  
  
“ _The Prof_ is ancillary to the plot, really.” Dietrich forwarded, the nib of his pen colouring in a capital O on the agenda before stilling. “Only trouble is, there’s a warrant out for that assclown’s arrest.” Suzanne snorted from her place at Guderian’s left.  
  
“And if he’s caught, you think he’ll talk,” she stated and shook her head. Cain turned sharp blue eyes to Isaak.  
  
“Is this true, Isaak?” he asked and the raven lit up.  
  
“I’m afraid so, Mein Herr,” he said on a stream of blue-grey smoke. “Apart from the data theft, he’s recently racked up a few other charges.” Cain’s brow arched and his thumb stilled on the pen’s retractor. The officers watched the pair without comment and Isaak ashed his smoke. “Be that as it may, I respectfully submit that Pietro has served his purpose, Your Highness,” he remarked and Cain tipped his chin slightly.  
  
“Terminate him. Immediately,” he ordered and the mage licked the seam of his lower lip, a whorl of smoke sensually floating beyond his dangerous smirk.  


 

 

~~~~****~~~~

  
  
  
On the carriage ride back to his home, Radu mulled over the prospect of traveling to Carthage. It wasn’t something he really wanted to do but he would accompany the Earl of Memphis and the Orden could do with that information what they would.  
  
The night prior, the Fortunas had hosted a gala and Radu, clothed in finery gifted to him by the Duke, entered the estate on Süleyman’s arm. Mirka had praised her subordinate on his _choice of accessories_ then flashed Radu an approving smile. The young Methuselah let himself be caught up in the lifestyle he should have inherited by right. Acceptance by the Boyar in attendance was offered as freely as the fine food and drink; though Radu acknowledged it had everything to do with his escort.  
  
After the festivities had dwindled down, Mirka graciously offered her guests accommodation before retiring herself. Radu had followed Süleyman into his room and they conversed in generalities about the younger’s upcoming mission, the Duke insisting that Radu keep in touch regarding _the other matter_. A forearm clasped in farewell had become a gentle stroke of a cheek. Whispered words of praise had melted into warm, languid kisses that threatened to drown Radu and he willingly let himself be taken under.  
  
  
Radu tossed his hat onto a hall chair then slipped off his jacket and loosened the first three buttons of his shirt, glad to have time to himself in his own home. His boots tapped across the wood floor as he walked to the study then sat in the leather chair and activated his console. The holoscreen hummed to life and after signing onto the Network, dark blue eyes lit on the slow blinking icon in the upper left. Radu touched the field and several calls had been placed, though no messages were attached.  
  
Grumbling to himself, Radu lit a cigarette then rose from his seat to pour a scotch. He had just closed the bottle when a soft tone hailed from the console. The Ifrit resumed his place at the desk and moved a finger through the field to receive the incoming communiqué. A large, black circle appeared in the centre of the holoscreen before shrinking on its way to the lower right corner and Radu took a puff off his smoke, the exhale streaming from pursed lips when the video link opened.  
  
Dietrich’s angelic simper met him from the screen and Radu cursed beneath his breath. “Hi, Flamberg!” the boy caroled then sat back in his chair, revealing the fact he wasn’t in regulation dress; favouring instead a high collared black shirt that contrasted sharply with his pale skin. The Methuselah quickly lowered his chin in an understated bow.  
  
“Dietrich,” Radu replied flatly and ashed his cigarette. Dietrich crossed a leg ankle to knee and rested elbows on the chair arms, loosely weaving his fingers.  
  
“Having a good time in Vampireland?” he asked, touching the tip of his tongue to a tooth. Radu quelled the want to roll his eyes and handed the teen a cursory grin.  
  
“Time of my life, Boss,” he answered flippantly and ashed his smoke before lifting it again. A slow draw brightened the tip of his cigarette, highlighting the contours of his face. “It’s always fun doing someone else’s dirty work,” he tacked on and Dietrich chuckled over the connection.  
  
“Isn’t it, though?!” The redhead freed a hand to inspect his nails. He idly groomed the side of one between white teeth then lowered the limb. “And I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of _dirty work_ over the past week, ja?” Dietrich taunted with a sly smile. “I hear Süleyman was on the menu.”  
  
Radu arched a brow and exhaled his lungfull, the smoke sensually curling from his lips. “I did visit the Duke, yes. But you knew that already and you also know the outcome,” he stated and Dietrich’s eyes narrowed lasciviously.  
  
“Indeed. And I bet you used your best negotiating techniques…which I’m dying to hear all about, Schönling.” Radu sent forth a mirthless guffaw.  
  
“I don’t think so,” he said then took a sip of his drink. Dietrich leered at him from the holoscreen then leaned in, resting his chin in hand.  
  
“Come on! You know you wanna tell me. Were you on your back the whole time, or did you change it up to keep things interesting?” He softly chewed on the tip of his pinky finger.  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Süleyman. Did you fuck him?” he prodded and Radu lowered his glass, a light frown creasing his brow.  
  
“I’m not going to discuss that with you, Puppetmaster.” It looked like he was going to need another scotch! Dietrich sighed, irritated, but quickly recovered to continue with his prurient inquisition.  
  
“Ooh, you did! Didn’t you?” he teased and cracked open a pop. He took a drink then quietly burped. “Tell, tell!” Radu growled quietly and a finger tapped restlessly against the chair finial. The Terran was a master at getting under his skin, and the bitch knew it.  
  
“Fine! Yes! He fucked me, Dietrich. Fucked me so hard, I’m surprised _you_ didn’t feel it!” _You little shit!_ he added subvocally and set down his glass none too gently. “Can I go, now?” Dietrich tried on a victorious smile, ignoring the other male’s grumbled plea.  
  
“Mmm..oh, to have been a fly on the wall, lover,” the redhead crooned with a wink.  
  
“I’m not your lover,” Radu retorted then got up to retrieve the scotch, momentarily turning his back on the screen.  
  
“Nice ass,” Dietrich needled with an impertinent giggle and the Ifrit’s hand clenched around the neck of the scotch but he sat once more, with the bottle and without comment. Radu wondered what the hell he’d done– in this life or a previous– to net him being saddled with an oversexed, insane superiour. Perhaps it was some sort of penance.  
  
“What do you want, Dietrich? I do have an airship to catch in the morning,” he informed the grinning idiot and poured a few fingers of scotch into the waiting glass. Radu had hoped the fuckstain was calling to give him his orders. But, as usual, Dietrich had to take the scenic route!  
  
Radu watched him take a bite of a pastry as he sat back, waiting. His frustration mounted but he wasn’t eager to give the Terran any more ammo. Dietrich quickly sucked the tip of his thumb then supplied a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I haven’t eaten all day,” he explained and Radu shrugged, his eyes deciding on their own to roll. “Anyway, I’m supposed to give you your orders.” Another sip of pop was had and Dietrich steepled his fingers.  
  
“Then please do,” Radu urged, tapping the filter of a cigarette against the surface of his desk. He always seemed to smoke more when dealing with Puppetmaster. As he lit the stick, Dietrich arched a brow at him, the corner of his mouth mimicking the gesture.  
  
“You’re so impatient!” he blurted and his eyes narrowed playfully. “That’s one thing I like about you, vampire– Oh sorry, _Methuselah_ ,” he corrected himself, his countenance one of poorly concealed amusement. “You just..distract me,” Dietrich purred, punctuating his sentence with a hummed chuckle.  
  
“I don’t have time for this shit, Lohengrin!” Radu groused behind a veil of smoke. “Save it for your master,” he tacked on then took a draw from his cigarette.  
  
“I know you’ve been busting your balls, Flamberg. Ergo, I’m inclined to overlook your tardy reports to me.” Dietrich’s darkened eyes flashed as he gazed at Radu with a lewd grin. “Regardless, I’m sure you’ll think of a way to make it up to me.”  
  
“Whatever,”  
  
Dietrich loosed a pleased hum, then changed courses. “Your first objective is to locate this guy,” he told Radu and the holoscreen image changed to a data sheet, complete with an image of the person in question, and Dietrich’s voice carried over the speaker bar. “Professor Pietro Borromini– ex-Vatican operative. Under our orders in Carthage… seems he’s been a little lax with _his_ reports, too,” he related with a slight lilt and Radu could imagine the look on Dietrich’s face. The screen scrolled to a second page. “He currently has a warrant out for his arrest and this has distressed The Almighty most grievously!”  
  
Radu snorted quietly at Dietrich’s irreverence and indeed at the downplay; sure that Crusnik was a bit more than _slightly miffed_. “There’s only a couple places he’d be incarcerated, if they catch him,” he informed the disembodied voice, glad he had a break from looking at those eyes. He tapped ash from his smoke and studied the details of the report. A flashing icon in the top right indicated Dietrich had sent the file on and Radu touched the square to download it. “Ex-Vatican, hmm?” he murmured and the teen closed the file to resume their face-to-face, briefly listing bullet points on the operative’s rap sheet.  
  
“Yes. Some people have no scruples,” Dietrich opined with a casual wink and Radu couldn’t help the snicker, nor the idiom he remembered from childhood:  
  
" ‘Look at the devil handing out scapulars’,” he quipped behind a grey exhale, his grin broadening. Dietrich passed a dismissive wave as he ate another tidy square of pastry.  
  
  
“I see you got your snags back,” he remarked and divested his hand of crumbs, wiping it along the outside of his unseen thigh. Radu subconsciously touched his tongue to one of his fangs, the reason why he’d lost them in the first place currently getting on his last good nerve. Tousled red hair moved softly as Dietrich shook his head with a ghost of a smile. “All the better, I suppose,” he flippantly stated, his expression losing a little of its mirth. “ _Herrgott_ wants him silenced. Doesn’t care how you do it and since you’re gonna be there with your dear little boyfriend, the job falls to you.”  
  
“Understood,” Radu said, his brow furrowed in the ofttimes Herculean task of refraining from telling the boy to fuck off. Dietrich’s outburst shook the Ifrit from his thoughts and he tamped out his cigarette, glaring at the screen.  
  
“Oh!” Dietrich interjected animately then settled for a disconcerting leer as he cocked his head. “I almost forgot, Sparky! We decided at our pow-wow the other night that it would best serve the Orden if both the Empire envoy– that would be that syrupy-sweet little bit of tail, The Earl of Memphis– and the Vatican emissary snuffed it.” Radu’s face fell.  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Yeah, ‘fraid so,” Dietrich affirmed with a feigned pout and eyes darkened as he held up his head against the heel of a hand. “Of course if you’re too attached, I suppose other arrangements can be made. I mean, I can’t blame you for not wanting to eliminate one from the _possible_ column.” Dietrich’s grin turned libidinous over the crest of his hand and a cinnamon brow arched along with it. “Or have you had a go there, as well?” he knifed and Radu’s eyes narrowed dangerously.  
  
“How dare you!” he barked but Dietrich wasn’t to be put off.  
  
“Oh please, Flamberg. I know you fuckers can’t keep it in your pants.” The teen’s tongue rested a moment on a tooth. “Bet Tovarăş means: _really_ good friends, ja?” he opined with a dirty chuckle.  
  
“You’re incredible,” Radu retorted flatly, choosing not to favour the comment with more, but images of his fist knocking that disgusting smirk from Dietrich’s face danced in his head.  
  
“Be that as it may, I think it only fair to tell you there are some of us that aren’t so impressed with our newest member,” he warned and Radu remained silent, though his brows rooted for his hairline. He schooled his expression and his jaw tightened then relaxed.  
  
“Understood,” Radu muttered. Dietrich raised up and put a hand over his heart.  
  
“You know it wasn’t me, Radu. There’s no way I’d get rid of you; now that you’re mine,” he purred, a smile that sickened the Methuselah hanging on the boy’s deceitful lips. Radu snorted at the truth of the statement. Even if he died, the Ifrit knew Dietrich would likely be the type of bastard to concoct a way to keep him hanging around. Radu figured that with his luck, death would never be an out for him.  
  
“Anything else, Herr von Lohengrin?” he droned then downed his scotch. The glass met his desk sharply and Dietrich chewed on his pinky for a moment then let it drop to the shallow divot beneath his pale lips.  
  
“Nope, that’s it,” Dietrich casually replied and sucked a bit of cherry filling from a back tooth. “I’m glad we could have this caring and sharing moment, gorgeous! Anyway, I gotta go…don’t forget to write!” Dietrich lewdly licked the air, punctuating the gesture with a kiss. “Bye!” The connection was severed and Radu tipped his head back into the chair, his exhale hissing though his nose.  
  
  
Isaak stepped from the shadows of Dietrich’s office, arms loosely folded at his chest and he leaned against a wall corner, his head softly shaking. “You should be ashamed of yourself, boy,” he opined and Dietrich sat back in his chair with the remainder of his pastry.  
  
“What?” he drawled and popped the treat in his mouth, several crumbs falling to his lap to be swept onto the floor. Isaak chose not to clarify and instead watched flakes of pastry dot the wood then met a devious gaze.  
  
“As contrary to my finer sensibilities as it may be, I want you on the next airship to Carthage,” he stated and Dietrich held the bite between his teeth for a moment, then slowly chewed it and swallowed.  
  
“I see you finally agree with me on something, Isaak,” he remarked with a victorious simper and a small manila envelope spun through the air to land on Dietrich’s desk. He looked at it then up at his mentor.  
  
“Take this with you,” Isaak ordered, pushing off the wall. He stepped up to the desk and put gloved hands to the surface, leaning in with a hint of a smirk. “And do let us keep our focus on things other than our wayward libido, mein Schatz,” Isaak added and Dietrich pulled the disc from its envelope. The corner of the case tapped softly against the desktop and the redhead passed a cherubim grin to his superiour.  
  
“Yes, Meister,” he answered obediently, his eyes hooding despite the assurance.


End file.
